Blood on the Page by Brian Keene

Author:Brian Keene
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2013-06-04T07:00:00+00:00

• • •

Later, Bloom and Myers ventured outside, while Sanchez stayed behind to guard the vehicle—and their fallen comrade.

The sky was clear. The piercing blue was broken only by a few wispy clouds. The wind had vanished, and the temperature was beginning to soar. No trace of the storm remained, except for the sand. Large dunes covered everything, obscuring their surroundings. The M-88 lay half buried on its side.

“No way we’re getting that thing out of there.” Bloom kicked at the desert in frustration.

“At least we got out. If that storm had kept up a few hours longer, we’d have been shit out of luck.”

“Myers,” Bloom began, hesitant. “Did you notice something last night?”

“You mean other than the weather?”

“Remember that old man, the one along the roadside? The storm didn’t get really bad until after we passed him.”

“What do you mean?”

“He said something—something in their language, and then he drew some funny symbols in the sand. Like he was doing magic or something.”

Myers snorted, and spat a wad of mucous and dirt.

“Bloom, what the hell have you been smoking? Man, if your number comes up for a random piss test, you’re looking at a dishonorable on your DD-214.”

“I’m serious. That storm wasn’t natural. And what about all that shit with the radios? That blue light? The darkness?”

“It was nighttime. Of course it was fucking dark. That don’t make it magic. We’ve got enough trouble without inventing more.”

“Forget it.”

They explored the terrain in a steadily broadening circle, looking for anything that seemed familiar.

“Where the fuck is the road?” Bloom sat down on a dune. “Shouldn’t there at least be tracks from the rest of the convoy?”

Myers shrugged. “Got covered up, I imagine. I don’t see nothing that looks familiar. No buildings. Not even a tree.”

“What’s that over there?”

The sun glinted off a flat piece of metal. They approached it curiously.

“That’s the roof of a truck,” Myers said. “How the—”

“Shhh,” Bloom silenced him. “Listen!”

Dim, muffled pounding came from somewhere beneath their feet. A voice called out from beneath the desert.

“Somebody’s alive in there!” Myers began digging at the sand with his hands. “Go back to the truck! See if you can find the shovels, and bring Sanchez!”

“On it,” Bloom said, dashing away.

“Hang on,” Myers shouted at the ground. “We’ll get you out!”

Bloom and Sanchez returned with a compact shovel and an empty coffee can. The three men dug in frantic silence, their bodies drenched with sweat.

Bloom knocked on the roof of the vehicle. “Hey down there! If you can hear me, we’re digging you out!”

They kept at it, but their determined efforts quickly turned to frustration. For each scoop of sand they hauled away, more poured into its place.

“This ain’t working,” Myers moaned.

Sanchez stood up. “Hang on.”

He ran back to the M-88 and disappeared inside.

“What’s he doing?” Bloom asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe he got heat stroke.”

The burly Texan reappeared a second later, holding a fire axe over his head.

“Stand back,” Sanchez warned, then swung the axe downward. There was a shriek of metal, and sparks danced over the sand.

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