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All characters in this book are fictitious. Names, places, characters, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher.
©2020 J. R. Handley
Senior Airman Brian Brinkley leaned into the grit-filled wind and squinted through his binoculars. The broken windows of the air control tower situated above the tarmac of Groom Lake didn’t offer much protection from the elements, but they were supposed to offer superior sight lines. The daily dust storms eliminated even that advantage. It was stupid to think anyone would try to move in these conditions. Underground motion sensors indicated that vehicles and people were shuffling around in the soup.
“The Dusters are fucking crazy if they think they can get anywhere in this shitstorm,” Brian said to the guard standing next to him.
Staff Sergeant Adam Trevior didn’t respond. The six-foot man was busy adjusting his face visor. The breathing vents were clogged with brown grit. When he smacked the plastic visor with his hand, a small puff of silt fell free.
“Well, they aren’t getting the daily water rations we get,” said Trevior. “You kids complain about the daily thirty-two; the Dusters only get what they take.”
Brian knew the comment was directed at him. Having only been stationed at Groom Lake for seven months, Brian was still adjusting to the daily thirty-two-ounce water rations. While water rationing wasn’t the norm for airmen stationed at the not-so-secretive Area 51, the last two shipments of water had been intercepted by Dusters lurking around in the spreading desert.
“Kind of sounds like you understand where they’re coming from,” Brian said as he pulled the binoculars away from his goggles and popped the lens caps on. He knew the precaution wouldn’t save him from the hour of maintenance he’d have to do later to clean the damn things, but it would help.
“My family was local,” Trevior replied.
There was a long pause. Brian wanted to ask whether Trevior’s family members were still citizens and had moved out of the Great Desert or if they were Dusters now. Trevior answered the unspoken question for him.
“They’re dead. Died from heat. When the first dust storms knocked the power out for two months, it was too much for them.”
Brian said nothing. Instead, he fidgeted with his rifle to ease the sudden seriousness of the conversation. The powdery dust in the air had mixed with the oil on his M-4’s bolt. Now a thin layer of blackish mud coated the action.
“Yep,” continued Trevior. “The government thought it was more important to keep the bright lights on in Vegas than ensure the surrounding areas had what they needed to survive. Guess they didn’t count on the dam running dry indefinitely.”
The news no longer even bothered to cover the issues at the Hoover Dam. Sure, when it stopped producing electricity, that was the top story for over a year, but eventually it got stale. The constant brownouts became a routine footnote scrolling along the ticker at the bottom of news reports. But when the dam’s water ran out and the Sonoran, Mojave, Chihuahuan, and Great Basin Deserts combined and reclaimed the entire region, the news agencies had fodder for a couple of years. The locals revolting because of lack of government support and calling themselves Dusters never got old. The proof sat just outside the front gates.
“The vultures don’t seem to be minding the daily dust,” said Trevior. “Look at those douche wagons.”
Brian popped the lens caps off his binoculars and peered through the brown haze. He saw the fleet of news vans, their elongated antennas getting battered by the wind. A wall of sand and dust, hundreds of feet high, was about to consume the tiny vehicles and roll over the base, just as it did each day.
“Wish the Dusters would harass those morons,” said Brian. “Those news crews probably have more water than us anyways. Wait a minute—something’s wrong.”
Trevior moved from his broken window and stood next to him. They both began scanning the area. Something was missing.
“Where the hell did all the protestors go?” said Trevior.
The sign-waving protestors begging for water had become as common as the daily wave of dust that infiltrated the base and coated it with sand.
“I only see one,” responded Brian. “To the right of the CNN van.”
The two pairs of binoculars focused on the lone sign holder. The sign the person held read Truth. An explosion of meat and fire took the sign holder’s place just as the sandstorm enveloped it all. A billowing tsunami of dust muted the sound of the detonation as the wind began to blast away at the tower. The scream of the wind against the broken glass was deafening.
“Holy shit!” said Brian. “That crazy bastard just blew himself up! The fence must’ve been breached. I’m passing the word.”
Before Brian could reach down for his push-button radio, a rifle butt smashed him in the back of the head.
* * *
Brian woke up flat on his face with a raging headache. He tried to take a breath but started wheezing, sand burning his lungs and partially filling the abandoned tower he found himself in. When he reached back with a hand to feel his head, his fingers felt the dry cake of blood mixed with sand and traced a three- or four-inch gash.
Fucking Trevior, thought Brian. Should have figured he was a Duster sympathizer with that sob story about his parents.