Of Salt and Sand

by Barnes, Michael

  He started up the Cherokee, put it in gear, then moved out slowly at first. But almost immediately, he found himself pushing on the accelerator with more force than he initially intended. He didn’t want to come across as a wimp—what with the cute damsel in distress sitting next to him and all—but like it or not, very soon into the drive, his cool smokescreen began to crumble. Everything Brant knew about the physics of motion was about to be challenged, as now, the rising convolution of dirt and sand not only appeared to be matching their speed, but actually changing direction to parallel their every move. Brant began to sense something dark, something imminent—a pending hunch he had long since learned to trust. Was this the very desert nemesis he had been tracking? Now, it seemed, it was tracking him!

  Teresa tried to sit and be as detached from the situation as possible. But she was a good judge of character. She had a talent for this, and this guy was starting to get really freaked out.

  “Why don’t we just pull over and let it blow past us?” she asked between a bumpy rebound that nearly rattled her teeth out of her mouth.

  Brant didn’t answer. He was too focused on keeping his jeep on the road, and one eye on the rearview mirror.

  “What’s happening!” Teresa finally demanded, getting tired of being the marble in the paint can.

  “I don’t know for sure!” Brant hollered back. “I’m sorry. Just hold on!”

  The swirling cloud now gnawed at their bumper. The ground shook violently, the air roared with an unnatural whine, as though they sat between two passing freight trains. Brant glanced again at his mirror, and as he did, his face morphed into a terrified look of disbelief. “What the—!” he bellowed out.

  “What is it!” cried Teresa, trying to steady herself with one hand on the dashboard, the another on the armrest.

  Brant gasped. His eyes bulged wide and he turned a desperate lock on her. “It’s alive! he shouted and floored the gas pedal. The Cherokee leaped ahead, throwing them both hard against the seat.

  “What are you doing!” she screeched. “Slow down!”

  But Brant was too stunned to answer. He knew what he had seen . . . something horrific and terrible, veiled and yet revealed by the motion of swirling dust and sand around invisible frames! And they were close, so close that he had seen, within the stomach of the dusty chaos, distinctive parts: ugly, disproportionate heads; large, extended arms; and claws reaching outward in a yearn for prey.

  --

  “Ten seconds until intercept!” cried the soldier, his forehead wet with perspiration.

  Briggs bit down hard, locking his teeth like a vise.

  Tanner stepped back, his eyes marbled as though a zombie, transfixed on the converging blips.

  Then, just as the signals joined, all white pulses suddenly froze and the red blips tore ahead.

  At that same instant, Jimmy’s voice was heard in a great hoot which echoed across the control room like a blast from an orchestra horn, “They are down!”

  All eyes now whirled to the sweat-soaked and trembling Jimmy Reitman, who stood over the terminal, panting like a marathoner at the finish line. “I want a meeting with you and your superiors, now!” he growled, his finger pointed like a gun at Tanner. “The Goliath’s are down! And down they stay until I say so!”

  Tanner blinked once, twice, then simply nodded, his nerves long since spent.

  Briggs nearly collapsed into a chair. “Would someone get me a drink of water?” he managed.

  --

  “Aaah!” Brant shouted, his hands gripped so tightly on the steering wheel that they were void of blood.

  Teresa took in a last gulp then closed her eyes. She felt the jeep careen into the air, spinning out of control as it left the road. It hit, bounded off the soft shoulder, barreled into a sandy rise, and finally ground to an abrupt stop as the tires dug into the rippled terrain. But she hardly had time to blink before the torrent was upon them. The Cherokee rattled and shook violently as dirt, pebbles, sand—a myriad of surface debris—pelted it with the furry of a small tornado. Then, as though some unseen force had simply flipped a switch . . . it was over. And all fell silent. Teresa opened her eyes and coughed. Brant was alive, obviously, because he was gawking frantically out and around his windows. It was as if he expected to spy something hideous—peering in through the windows like some creature in an old nightmare theatre flick. But there was nothing but wafting debris. Had he lost his mind!

  The jeep had landed upright, but was now facing the road nearly opposite to the direction they had been traveling. As the dust drifted eerily to the ground, the air cleared. The graveled road came into view, scaring the red sands in an endless ribbon as far as the eye could see. In every direction, there was nothing but clear, pristine desert landscape. It was as if nothing had disturbed the area for countless years.

  Brant’s heart still raced as he continued his surveillance like a frightened animal. What had he seen in the mirror? The dust cloud had come, reeked its damage, and past. Yet they were relatively unharmed? And now . . . nothing? Had he somehow imagined what the blowing debris revealed so absolute and terrifying? Was he losing his mind? Was he being affected by some undocumented desert phenomenon which might have caused such a strange hallucination? All these questions and more tore through Brant’s head in seconds, bringing confusion and improbability. Brant suddenly remembered his female passenger . . . what on earth must she be thinking. He whirled and turned his attention to her.

  Teresa coughed again from the hazy air still trapped in the cab. “Are you completely nuts!” Were her first words. She eyed him furiously. There was no fear in her eyes, just a desire to punch him square in the face!

  Brant’s chivalrous rescue was obviously moot, flushed right down the toilet of the crazy and unexplainable. “I’m so, so sorry. Are you alright?” he managed, taking her carefully by the arm.

  Teresa jerked loose. “What was all that about! And don’t tell me you were just worried about your stupid shiny jeep! You nearly got us killed!”

  Brant reddened, and behind confused eyes, he blinked blindly as the struggle for logical words waned and fell flat. With the dusty film coated thickly around his eyes, he looked like an embarrassed raccoon. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I . . . I thought something was chasing us.”

  “Chasing us?” she repeated cuttingly. “Yes. It’s called a dust cloud! Those swirly things that naturally form in the desert?” She coughed again. “Or did you think it was a desert abominable out looking for a late lunch?”

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry,” Brant mumbled. Then he opened his door and got out.

  Teresa sat for a moment then sighed in frustration. She began to fill the prick of guilt. It was a rather rude remark. She managed to unbuckle herself and stepped out. She shut the door more gently than she would have just moments earlier. She looked around and groaned. He was still her only ride out of there.

  The Cherokee was covered in sand and pebbles. The chassis was pelted in small dents and the paint was not only destroyed, but sandblasted in some areas right down to the shiny metal.

  “Wow. That sucks. Looks like you’ve had her sandblasted and ready for paint.” Now she really felt bad.

  “Yup. Right down to the metal.”

  “I’m sorry. I guess I understand now why you were trying to outrun it.”

  “I wasn’t worried about my car, Teresa. But,”—he paused—“let’s just leave it at that.”

  “Do you think we’ll be able to get it back on the road?”

  Brant took another evaluating look, then shrugged. “I don’t see why not. She may look like crap but I’m sure she’ll still drive okay. She’s got 4-wheel-drive. I should be able to drive her right out of this sandbox,” he said confidently. He began a more thorough analysis of the vehicle’s condition.

  Teresa leaned against the jeep and watched for a moment. She shook her head and chuckled facetiously. “This is even more miserable than the last time I was with you.”

  Brant’s
head suddenly popped up from behind the hood. He narrowed a puzzling lock on her, his head tilted inquisitively. “I thought I knew you,” he said, shutting the hood. “But you look so—”

  “Skinny,” she said, brushing dust off her clothes. “I know. Eighty pounds can do a lot for a girl.”

  Brant’s mind began to extrapolate as he raced back in time. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Sure you did. But it’s okay. That’s why I was so quick to take the lift. I don’t usually jump right into a strange man’s car,”—she chuckled, humorously—“even for a rescue. I recognized you.”

  Brant still couldn’t place her. Well I can’t remember you, he thought in frustration.

  “I don’t suppose you remember the Science Club at Mountain View High School. You were a popular senior, and the president of the club. I was the unpopular junior, and your nerdy vice president—by assignment of course.”

  His face suddenly revealed a memory. And he instantly knew her. “Teresa Henington”, he repeated. “Yes. Now I remember,” Brant said. He also remembered, with a pang of guilt, what an arrogant jerk he’d been in high school. “Wow. Has it been that long?”

  She smiled. “Longer. At least it feels that way.”

  Brant tried to push past the guilt as he found himself staring at her with absolutely no idea of what to say next. It was one of those awkward moments, made even more so because he was the cause of it. He couldn’t really remember exactly how Teresa had looked those many years ago, but sadly, the one characteristic he did recall, was that she had been . . . well, fat. But looking at her now, the transformation was hard to believe. The woman standing in front of him could not appear more enticingly beautiful, breathtakingly so. “You really do look,”—he paused to swallow down the lump—“stunning. I mean it.”

  “Thanks,” she said coolly. “It’s the dust.”

  He laughed.

  Teresa averted her gaze, and looked away for a moment. “Not too long after graduation, I came home one day and overheard my mom telling a friend on the phone that I was, ‘as big as an elephant’, I think were her words. After crying most of that night, I awoke to a new resolve—an in your face, mom, vendetta. I went right out and bought a membership at a local gym. I didn’t stop until two years later, when my doctor asked me if I was anorexic.” She laughed ironically. “Now I teach self-defense and kickboxing two nights a week.” She shrugged and smiled. “I suppose I’m a certified health-nut.”

  Brant smiled back, fondly. “I doubt you’re any kind of a nut. And whatever change has come your way, it’s definitely been a good thing.”

  “Well,” she replied. “You certainly felt differently the last time you and I were together. Remember? The high school dance? Girl’s choice?”

  Brant’s grin diminished and his head went disgracefully down. Yes, he remembered. The whole ordeal returned to him like a forgotten haunt. He managed the occasional nod as she recapped the entire event as if it were yesterday. How on earth had she recalled the memory so vividly? He had forgotten . . . forgotten how cruel he had been to her.

  “I was such a jerk!” he said finally, shaking his head in disgust.

  “Glad we agree on that,” she replied, frankly . . . a little to frankly. Then, seeing how awkward she had made him feel, she smiled. “It’s okay, Brant. Trust me, I’ve gotten over it. We were just kids back then anyway, right?”

  Brant didn’t answer right away. He watched her ease the situation like balm on a burn. She really was amazing. “I know this comes years late, but I’m so sorry, Teresa.”

  The declaration caught her by surprise. She stopped talking mid-sentence, and for a moment just gazed into his face. Then she knew. He really was sorry. And her next thought was, when had he become so handsome?

  An awkward silence followed as the two stood, regarding each other in some strange emotional entanglement.

  “I’ll forgive you if you get me out of here,” she finally spoke, her eyes wide with fun and just enough spice to chase away the sting of the past.

  Brant grinned back and allowed a relieved expression. “You got it. Anywhere you want,” he assured willingly.

  “Well,” she spoke a little hesitantly. “How about a castle?”

  He laughed.

  “Um . . . really. How about a castle?”

  She wasn’t kidding. Now she had his attention.

  “You asked how I ended up out here? I was actually on my way to Sandcastle Estate. I was driving my brother’s car and—”

  “Sandcastle!” Brant suddenly burst out. “You’re kidding?”

  “No,” she replied slowly, eyeing him rather peculiarly.

  “But this is amazing! I have actually spoken with Mrs. Reitman personally,” he explained. “She’s an amazing woman! She granted me access to do some geographical testing and exploration on a large section of Reitman property . . . an area we call, the scrubland. That’s where my campsite is located.”

  “Your campsite?” Teresa mimed back, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. “You live out here?”

  “Oh no, no,” he quickly explained. “But . . . well . . . why don’t you let me drive you to Sandcastle and I’ll explain on the way.”

  Teresa hesitated, “Well, I don’t—”

  “Ah,” Brant replied, deflated. “I see. You’ve got some kind of authorization to get inside the perimeter. I don’t, obviously.”

  Teresa winced sympathetically. “Something like that. But I could call Gracie and explain the situation. She might grant you access . . . might. Since you saved me and all.”

  “Wow!” Brant exclaimed, eyes wide. “Really? So there is a perk for the hero work?”

  She smiled. “I said I would ask her. That’s as good as your perk gets.”

  “Hey. That’s good enough for me.” He eyed her intriguingly, then chuckled and shook his head.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I just,”—he snorted humorously—“I mean you realize that you have the phone number of one of the wealthiest women in the world. And I . . . well I’m sure you’re not there to teach the old tycoon some kickboxing moves.”

  Teresa grinned. “Not exactly.”

  “But you obviously work for her.”

  “Sort of,” she hindered.

  “Ah. I see. It’s one of those confidential things you can’t talk about. I get it. Sorry to pry.”

  Teresa nodded. “Yeah. Part of the job. Sorry.”

  “Hey, I totally understand. You have the golden ticket.”

  “Actually, it’s a fancy keycard,” she corrected, pulling the metal card from her pocket, “and it’s silver.”

  Brant’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Very cool.”

  “I guess. This little baby allows me to make a call-in request at the first checkpoint.” She held up the shiny card tauntingly. “Everything is automated. There’s an entire battery of camera’s; a voice recognition interface; and an optical pattern scanner. Trust me, the keycard is simply like giving me permission to knock on the door. Getting inside is infinitely more tricky.”

  “Makes sense,” said Brant.

  “As part of her staff, Gracie employs a driver. She may very well opt to have him drive out to get me. That is the logical pattern, and she’s done that before.”

  Brant shrugged. “Hey, I just appreciate the attempt.”

  “Okay then,” Teresa replied, adventurously. She patted the jeep’s hood. “So do you think you can get her back on the road?”

  He turned and eyed the vehicle optimistically. “You bet.” He walked around to the front, observed for a moment, then scratched his chin. “Hmm,” he reconsidered.

  “Let me guess. You need a push.”

  “Well . . . it would help. If you don’t mind too much?”

  “And why not,” she embellished, tossing her hands in the air. “I certainly can’t get any dirtier than I am already.” Teresa settled herself at the front of the jeep, hands on hood. “Just say when.”

  Brant hurried into the vehicle an
d started up the motor.

  “Gracie’s gonna love hearing about this adventure,” Teresa mumbled to herself. Then she braced for the push.

  “Okay,” shouted Brant through the open window. “Push!”

  The motor revved; Teresa pushed.

  The face-plant which followed trumped all possibilities for pleasant conversation on the ride out to the estate. In fact, it was a rather silent and subdued drive.

  Chapter 39:

  The last gated aperture shook momentary, then as if submitting to an unwilling command, split down the center and drew slowly apart. As Brant sat nervously at the wheel, his knee began to bounce and his hands were sweaty from anticipation. He shook his head for the tenth time and imbued his enthusiasm at Teresa. “I can’t believe I’m actually going to see inside!”

  Brant had been both shocked and delighted when Teresa hung up the phone and smiled her large nod: Gracie Reitman had approved to his admission. Now, here they were, rolling up the driveway of the mysterious icon known as Sandcastle Estate, a place Brant knew little about, yet whose desert roots seemed to encroach deep, well beyond the bricks, steel and metal of the magnificent structures concealed just beyond his view.

  Teresa was in an emotional upheaval of her own; not from anticipation but from a sense of appearance. She hated showing up on Sandcastle’s front steps looking like she’d just come off the soccer field. Her hair was a mangled mess; her very expensive, newly dry-cleaned outfit was ruined; and to sour the vinegar, one side of her face was still puffy—red and swollen from the face-plant. There was no debating that she had definitely made better entrances. “I should have just had you take me home,” she groaned, taking another hit at the visor mirror. She brushed, tucked and patted until no single hair was safe from transposition.

  “You look fine,” lied Brant (yes, she looked a bit tumbled). “Mrs. Reitman will understand. Besides, she’s the one that insisted you come as you are. She all but—” he suddenly broke with a gasp. “Would you look at that!”