The desert had been orange at sunrise — a shimmering expanse of sand stretching into forever. By noon, it turned red.
Ethan Holt wiped his sunglasses with the corner of his scarf, though the lenses were already coated in dust. The sun hammered the ground, bleaching everything it touched. He and his traveling partner, Melissa Crane, had been driving since dawn — west, toward the border, through what was left of Arizona.
They weren’t tourists. They were survivors.
The droughts had come first, then the storms. The old highways were buried now, the small towns abandoned. What remained were miles of cracked earth and wind that never stopped blowing.
Ethan slowed the Jeep, scanning the horizon. The air shimmered strangely — not just heat this time. A thick haze gathered far ahead, moving like a living wall.
Melissa leaned forward. “Is that…?”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Dust storm.”
She swallowed. “How far?”
“Too close.”
They both knew what that meant.
He pulled off the road, heading for a line of low cliffs — the only shelter for miles. The wind was already rising, carrying the faint hiss of sand.
“Grab the masks,” he said.
Melissa dug through the emergency kit, tossing him a respirator and goggles. They’d both learned the hard way: once the sandstorm hit, breathing became impossible without protection.
They reached the base of the cliffs just as the first gust struck — violent, hot, and full of grit. The Jeep rocked.
“Out!” Ethan shouted.
They ran for the nearest overhang, crouching as the air turned to fire.
Within minutes, the world disappeared.
The storm devoured everything — sky, ground, horizon. The air was thick, choking. Sand rattled against rock like hail, and visibility dropped to zero.
Ethan pressed his back against the cliff wall, pulling Melissa close. He could barely hear her voice through the roar.
“How long do these last?” she shouted.
“Could be hours. Maybe more!”
She nodded, eyes hidden behind the goggles, mask filters vibrating with each breath.
The ground trembled under them as gusts struck in waves. Every few seconds, a pocket of stillness would appear — only for the next blast to hit harder.
Ethan tried to check his compass, but the needle spun erratically. Static in the air. He shoved it back into his pocket.
They couldn’t move. The sand was too thick — like swimming through dust. Even crawling risked losing each other.
He pulled the tarp from his pack, anchoring one side to the rock with climbing pins and wrapping the other around them. It flapped violently, then settled, creating a cocoon of dull orange light.
For a while, they just listened.
The sound was endless — a deep, grinding moan that felt alive.
Melissa’s voice broke the monotony. “You ever think about the world before this?”
Ethan nodded slowly. “Every day.”
“What do you miss the most?”
He thought for a moment. “Rain. The smell of it.”
She smiled weakly beneath her mask. “Yeah. Me too.”
Hours passed. The light dimmed to red, then to black.
Ethan’s throat burned from the dry air leaking through the filters. He checked his watch — it had stopped. The storm’s static field must’ve fried it.
Melissa was shivering beside him. “I can’t feel my hands,” she said faintly.
He took them, rubbing warmth into her fingers through the gloves. “Stay awake.”
Her head rested against the wall, exhaustion in every breath.
Ethan unzipped his pack, pulling out a water pouch. Half-empty. He handed it to her. “Small sips. Just enough to wet your throat.”
She obeyed, then pushed it back. “You first.”
He shook his head. “You need it more.”
The tarp rippled again. The storm was shifting. There was a lower hum now — a new sound beneath the wind. It reminded him of thunder, except heavier.
“Ethan?”
“Yeah?”
“What if it doesn’t stop?”
He didn’t answer. Because sometimes it didn’t.
They’d heard stories — storms that lasted two, three days, covering whole towns.
He checked their oxygen meters. Filters at sixty percent. Time was running out.
“Rest,” he said finally. “We’ll move when it’s over.”
Outside, the desert screamed.
When the storm finally broke, it was sudden — like the desert had exhaled.
The air cleared just enough to see shadows again. The wind died to a whisper. Sand still fell in sheets from the cliffs, like dry waterfalls.
Ethan crawled out from under the tarp, blinking into the weak sunlight. The Jeep was gone — buried completely.
Melissa followed, stumbling. The silence felt unnatural after so many hours of noise.
“Which way now?” she asked.
Ethan turned, scanning the horizon. The compass still spun uselessly. But the sky was brighter to the west — faint blue breaking through.
“That way,” he said.
They began walking. Every step crunched through drifts of red dust that reached their knees.
Half a mile later, they found what used to be the road — only a raised line of asphalt barely visible under the sand.
Ethan marked the direction on his map. “We’ll hit the outpost by nightfall. If it’s still standing.”
Melissa laughed softly. “If it’s not, we keep walking?”
He smiled beneath his mask. “We always keep walking.”
Behind them, the horizon glowed faintly red again — a reminder that the storm was never really gone.
Just waiting.