Dust

Dust.

Dust and desperation are all that I've seen for days.

Years ago, before The Turning, I would have sold my soul for a flicker of human contact—anything to break the weary tedium I now find myself in. But being alone is a blessing; if you are alone, you are still alive. To not see nor hear another person means that, at least for the time being, you are safe.

Winston coughs, a dry, hacking sound that breaks the silence on the highway.

I don't like stopping in the middle of nowhere, but Winston is the closest thing to family that I've got left. With a sigh, I draw back on the reins, signaling the massive elk to stop. "Whoa," I murmur, words muffled by thick layers of cloth.

Easing down from the saddle, my booted feet scrape across the cracked pavement of what had once been a busy highway. I remember driving down this stretch of California road with my parents when I was a child, not dreaming for a moment of what dangers lay lurking in the shadows. Now it is barren and desolate, like much of the country.

It's not so bad, though, I muse as I pull a canteen and shallow dish from one of Winston's saddle bags. I've heard that in Europe, it is steam and not dust that clouds the landscape. Different environments for different monsters. Given the choice, I prefer a life wrapped in cloth and goggles.

Sensing the water, Winston huffs through his protective muzzle and paws at the pavement with one cloven hoof.

"I'm being as quick as I can," I assure him.

Dust puffs up from Winston's brown back as I close the flap on the bag. It rises into the air to join its brethren as they dip and swirl across the road. Soon, it'll settle back on us—it always does.

I've nearly forgotten what the landscape looks without a thick layer of dust. The grass has long died out, smothered into oblivion by this plague; the grain I buy for Winston has been grown underground and sold at astronomically-high prices. But I pay them.

I have to.

Winston huffs again.

"Sorry," I murmur, setting the dish on the ground in front of his large hooves. The bull elk shifts back and forth eagerly, barely holding his head still long enough for me to unbuckle the muzzle. Dust settles into the shallow basin; it's futile to try and brush it out of the way. It will just come back.

I unscrew the canteen and pour water into the basin. Winston dips his head and gulps the water gratefully. I step out of the way of his antlers, cognizant of the sharpened, poisoned tips. The poison wouldn't work on me, of course, but the scratches would hurt like a bitch for a week.

As Winston drinks, I stand by his side, in easy reach of my crossbow. Odds are that I've got nothing to worry about, but you can never let your guard down—not for a minute. Cockatrices are drawn to sound. They tend to leave single travelers alone, but that doesn't mean they won't try to kill you if they're really hungry.

A strange chittering sound scuttles across the deserted highway like tarantula legs, contrasting sharply with the soft susurration of dust and Winston's eager slurping.

I stiffen. Winston's head snaps up, eyes wide behind the plastic dome that protects his face; I feel every muscle in his large body tense.

Go away. No one's here, I plead, slowly turning to release the crossbow from its hook. It drops heavily into my gloved hands, loaded with deadly intention.

But God is cruel, for a cockatrice emerges from the behind the desolate hills. Fear coats my tongue like dust; I raise the crossbow, leveling its poison-tipped bolt at the creature.

The cockatrice pauses at the edge of the highway and cocks its head to the side, as if examining the pavement. The scourge of California is a wolf-sized grotesque mixture of chicken, bat and lizard. Some people liken their reptile parts to a dragon, but I've always thought dragons were more majestic than this experiment of nature gone horribly wrong.

Winston bellows and tosses his antlers, issuing a challenge to the cockatrice.

Goddammit, I moan as the creature's poison-green eyes focus on us. Why did I have to fall in love with an old, scarred war elk in the first place?

Long lashes brush the dust from the cockatrice's eyes and it takes a step forward, black claws clicking. Red-veined wings flutter at its flanks, stirring the heavy air into new patterns. It's testing us, waiting to see what we do next.

I can't take any chances. Once the cockatrice issues its hunting call, Winston and I are surely dead. I didn't survive this long to be stripped to the bone on a barren highway. Sighting the crossbow, I curse as a strong gust of wind stirs up the dust, throwing a protective curtain over the cockatrice.

Don't wait—shoot.

Blinded by the cloud, I aim the crossbow for the cockatrice's last-known position and fire. The heavy bow thuds against my shoulder as the bolt sings towards its target. I wait as time slows, breath thick in my chest, for the sound of impact.

The world lurches forward, making my heart jump as the bolt crunches through the tough, bony plates of the cockatrice's chest. A high, piercing scream rakes across my nerves like a bow over an untuned violin. As the wind suddenly shifts, I see the cockatrice flopping on the ground, black ichor pouring from its wound.

Not willing to risk a second shot, I scoop up Winston's dish and shove it into his saddle bag. Throwing myself into the saddle, I knee the battle elk into a run as the sound of a dozen chittering cockatrices rise over the dead hills to converge on their fallen comrade.

Into the dust we flee.