Sandstorm

“Get below!” Painter yelled.

Too late.

A force, neither wind nor concussion, blasted outward, flattening the lake, sweeping in all directions, pushing before it a wall of superheated air.

It struck.

Painter, half around the corner, caught a glancing shove to the shoulder. He was ripped away, tossed bodily across the room, lifted on wings of fire. Others had taken the force fully and were driven straight back. In a tangle, they hit the far wall. Painter kept his eyes squeezed shut. His lungs seared with the one breath he had taken.

Then it ended.

The heat vanished.

Painter gained his feet. “Shelter,” he squeaked out, waving in vain.

The quake came next.

No warning.

Except for an earsplitting clap, deafening, as if the Earth were being cracked in half. Then the palace jumped several feet up, then down again, throwing them all flat.

The rattling worsened. The tower shook, jolted to one side, then the other. Glass shattered. An upper story of the tower went crashing down. Pillars broke and toppled, smashing into city or lake.

All the while, Painter kept flat.

A loud splintery pop exploded by his ear. He turned his head and saw the entire balcony beyond the archway shear and tilt away. A small limb waved.

It was Cassandra. She had not been blown through the doorway like the rest of them, but knocked against the palace’s outer wall.

She fell with the balcony. In her hand, she still held the detonator.

Painter scrambled toward her.

Reaching the edge, he searched below. He spotted Cassandra sprawled in the tumble of broken glass. Her fall had not been far. She lay on her back, clutching the detonator to her chest.

“I still have it!” she hollered hoarsely to him, but he didn’t know if it was in threat or reassurance.

She gained her feet.

“Hang on,” he said. “I’m coming down.”

“Don’t—”

A bolt of charge stabbed out as she stood, striking at her toes. The glass melted underfoot. She dropped into the pool, thigh-deep before the glass solidified under her.

She didn’t scream, though her entire body wrenched with pain. Her cloak caught on fire. She still held the detonator, in a fist, hugged to her neck. A gasp finally escaped her.

“Painter…!”

He spotted a patch of sand in the courtyard below. He leaped and landed hard, wrong, ankle turning, skidding. It was nothing. He stood and kicked sand, a meager path to reach her side.

He dropped next to her, knees in sand. He could smell her flesh burning.

“Cassandra…ohmygod.”

She held out the transmitter, every line on her face agonized. “I can’t hold. Squeeze…” He grabbed her fist, covering it with his own.

She relaxed her own grip, trusting him to keep her finger pressed now. She fell against him, her pants smoldering. Blood poured where charred skin met glass, too red, arterial.

“Why?” he asked.

She kept her eyes closed, only shook her head. “…owe you.”

“What?”

She opened her eyes, met his. Her lips moved, a whisper. “I wish you could’ve saved me.” He knew she didn’t mean a moment ago…but back when they were partners. Her eyes closed. Her head fell to his shoulder.

He held her.

Then she was gone.

Sandstorm

Safia awoke in Omaha’s arms. She smelled the sweat on his neck, felt the tremble in his arms. He clutched tightly to her. He was crouched down, balanced on the balls of his feet, cradling her in his lap.

How was Omaha here? Where was here?

Memory snapped back.

The sphere…the lake…

She struggled to get free. Her movement startled Omaha. He tipped, caught himself with a hand, then yanked his arm back.

“Saff, stay still.”

“What happened?”

His face was strained. “Nothing much. But let’s see if you saved Arabia.” He hauled her up, still carrying her, and ducked out the door.

Safia recognized the place. Where the rolling sphere had jammed. They both looked to the lake. Its surface still swirled, eddying. The skies overhead blazed and crackled.

Safia felt her heart sink. “Nothing’s changed.”

“Hon, you slept through a whirlwind and a major quake.”

As if on cue, another aftershock rattled around them. Omaha took a step back, but it ended. He returned to studying the lake. “Look at the shoreline.” She turned her head. The water’s edge had receded about twenty yards, leaving a bathtub ring around the lake. “The water level’s dropping.”

He hugged her tighter. “You did it! The lake must be draining into one of those subterranean cisterns Coral was yammering about.” Safia stared back up at the static storm on the roof. It, too, was slowly subsiding, grounding out. She glanced across the spread of the darkening city, both upper and lower. So much destruction. But there was hope.

“No bolts,” she said. “I think the firestorm is over.”

“I’m not taking any chances. C’mon.” He hiked her higher in his arms and marched up the slope toward the palace.

She didn’t protest, but she quickly noted Omaha wincing with every step.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, arms hugged around his neck.

“Nothing. Just some sand in my shoes.”

Sandstorm

Painter saw them approach.

Safia was riding piggyback on Omaha.

Painter called to them as they reached the courtyard. “Omaha, the electrical discharging is over,” he said. “You can put Safia down.” Omaha marched past him. “Only over the threshold.”

He never made it. Shahra and Rahim all gathered around the pair in the courtyard, congratulating and thanking. Danny hugged his brother. He must have said something about Cassandra because Omaha glanced to the body.

Painter had covered it with a cloak. He had already deactivated the detonator and switched off the transceiver. Safia was safe.

He studied the group. Besides plenty of bruises, scrapes, and burns, they had all weathered the firestorm fine.

Coral straightened. She held one of the launchers and placed a belt buckle against its side. It stuck. She caught him staring. “Magnetized,” she said, tossing it aside. “Some type of magnetic pulse. Intriguing.” Before he could respond, another aftershock rocked the place, strong enough to shatter away another pillar, weakened by the original quake. It fell across the city with a resounding crash.

That sobered everyone up to the dangers still here.

They were not safe.

To emphasize this fact, a deep rumble rose from below, trembling the glass underfoot. A low sound accompanied it, a subway train passing underground.