Dust and Roses

by Wes Brummer

  The darkness swallowed them.

  Sara and Beatrice were trapped in the belly of the storm.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  It is impossible, Jason thought. The roadster couldn’t have disappeared. I just took my eyes off the road for a second. And then the bridge appeared. Larry would lead them to Sara, but they had to find him first.

  Michael grabbed his arm. “Look! We’re not licked yet. Larry must have turned.” Michael jabbed a finger ahead. “That dirt road up ahead. Take it!”

  Jason wheeled the Model A around the corner, hitting a bone-jarring pothole, followed by a rock that brought one wheel off the ground. The path ahead promised more dips and bumps.

  Michael grabbed onto the dashboard. “Slow down!”

  Jason hung onto the wheel with both hands. “Not now. We have to catch up.”

  The car pitched ahead, bouncing along the rutted lane. Before them, dust still stirred from Larry’s car. At least Jason hoped so. Through the haze, Jason glimpsed a flash of silver. They found their runaway bird.

  Michael licked his lips, glancing out the rear window. “The storm is closing in. Can we still follow Larry in the dark?”

  “We’ll have to,” Jason said. “Sis has to be close. Why else would Larry turn from the main road?”

  “Maybe someone is holding her prisoner?”

  “You need to switch to zeppelin stories. They’re more realistic.”

  “Ha, ha.”

  “How close is that storm?” Jason asked.

  Michael glanced back one more time. “Close. Stay with him. As long as you can.”

  ****

  Larry Bigger glanced in his rearview mirror. A Model A trailed behind him. Probably the same one that followed him out of Wichita. It had to be Sara’s nosey brothers. He was just minutes away from the asylum. Soon, these ruts would smooth out, and his vehicle would have the advantage of speed. He’d lose those clowns, grab Sara, and take a different route back home. There, he’d make the exchange, Sara for the money.

  As the lane flattened, Larry jammed the gas. His head pounded, as much from the jarring road as last night’s drinking. Driving was more of a chore than it should have been. But he knew his limits. More important, he knew the capabilities of the car and the conditions of the road ahead. Those boys couldn’t keep pace. They were beaten, and they didn’t even know it.

  The Roadster hit loose gravel, sending his back tires fishtailing. Larry applied just enough brake to maintain control. Then, he pressed hard on the accelerator. Tires bit into packed dirt, and the car surged ahead. Speed and danger. Much better than coffee and whiskey.

  He couldn’t wait to get to the looney bin, to hear Sara beg and plead for him to take her back home. He was in control. Sara and those idiots behind would soon find that out.

  Carriage Road was coming up. Homestretch to the asylum. Here’s where he would lose those guys. He’d whip his car around the corner, just like last time.

  Movement registered from the corner of his eye. Cattle had broken through the barbwire fence. A few of the stupid beasts lumbered toward him on the road. How was he going to get through? He had to make his turn. Wait. An opening! A tight fit, but he could make it. Larry swerved the wheel hard, shooting the gap. His right hand touched the metal knob of the gearshift.

  Snap!

  A tremendous static charge jolted him backward, numbing his right hand. He lost his grip on the steering wheel. The Roadster flew off the road, jumped the ditch and hit the rise on the far side. The impact jerked Larry’s head forward, his nose smashing into the steering column. The car shot upward.

  For a few brief seconds, the Roadster became a flying machine.

  Larry screamed, blood gushing from a broken nose, He leaned into the door writhing in pain. Pain blotted out all thought. Breathing was impossible. He brought up his hand to protect his face, dislodging a lever. The door beneath him flew open. With dim surprise, he sensed a rush of air.

  Falling. Why was he falling?

  He didn’t remember hitting the ground. Gray loomed over him, fading to black. A low groan escaped bloody lips. The pain in his nose was excruciating, but something else was wrong. Searing heat burned at the base of his neck. Below that—nothing. Fancy that. Driving back would be hard with a broken neck. Where was his Roadster? He was driving it a minute ago. He wanted to find it, but he couldn’t turn his head. All he could do was stare into the darkening heavens.

  Black waves rushed toward him. That was worrisome, yet all he felt was a profound lethargy, urging him to rest. Was he about to die? A pity. Too bad. He missed getting his reward. The money would have come in handy. The sound of a tremendous locomotive filled his ears. That’s it. He could sleep on the train.

  He stared ahead, blinking. Churning darkness rolled toward him. It looked like dust. He tried to swallow, but his throat didn’t work. Moving was out of the question. Dirt would cover him. Too bad he couldn’t brag about what was to come.

  How many people get to see their own burial?

  ****

  Jason somehow closed the gap between the two vehicles. Thank goodness, this road was more drivable. He had to stay with Larry. No telling what would happen when the dust storm overcame them. Ahead, the Roadster pulled away. Larry must be standing on the gas. If he got too far ahead, they might not find Sara.

  “It’s almost here.” Michael turned to the front. “On the road! Cattle!”

  Jason slammed on the brakes. Livestock wandered about. But it was the Roadster that held his attention. The Chevy veered off the road and launched skyward like a silver rocket from a catapult. The vehicle smashed into the earth seconds later, rolling end over end. He grabbed Michael’s arm. “Larry just crashed!”

  The Model A’s engine popped and died. The world dimmed to black.

  “It’s got us,” Michael said.

  The storm slammed into the vehicle, causing the car to lurch from side to side. Sand and loose rock pelted doors and windows. Cold wind howled, looking for a way in. Jason touched the lifeless ignition and jerked his hand from the stinging shock. He rubbed feeling back into his fingers, but he couldn’t see any damage.

  He couldn’t see anything at all.

  Wind shrieked. Jason sensed the dust creeping in and rolled his window as tight as he could. “Lousy, rotten timing…” Jason shook his head. “I never imagined a dust storm could be this bad.”

  “I hope the windows hold,” Michael said. “I wasn’t looking. What happened to Larry?”

  “His car shot off the road just before the storm hit.”

  Michael groaned. “So he’s out there in a wrecked car?”

  Jason touched the car door, then let go. Larry could be dying. The only person who knew where Sara was, and they couldn’t save him. A person could get lost in that blackness. “He’s probably dead already. Or will be soon. We need to stay put. Save ourselves.”

  Michael stirred. “Turn on the headlights. Honk the horn. We need to do something. If you’re too afraid, I’ll go after him.”

  “Michael, the car is dead. Nothing works. You’d never find him or make it back.” Jason coughed up a wad of dust that turned to mud in his throat. “Breathing’s going to be a problem. Find a cloth to cover your mouth.” Jason ripped the sleeve of his shirt and tied the torn cloth around his face. “Have you got anything?”

  Michael’s voice sounded muffled. “I’ve got my cap over my face.”

  Jason leaned back in his seat. No one knew where they were. It came down to survival: keeping the windows closed, protecting their lungs, and praying that the windows wouldn’t shatter from flying rocks. Grit settled on hair and clothing. The air even tasted dirty.

  Jason removed his watch, but it was impossible to tell the time. If he needed to, he could pry off the crystal and read the hands like a blind man. In the meantime, they would have to sit and wait out the storm. At least the car quit rocking as much. Their plan of rescuing Sara had turned into an exercise in self-preservation. All they could do was st
ay alive and try again another day.

  Nobody knew where they were. How many others were in their situation? Was this the end? If God was blowing the world out like a candle, He was doing it in grand style.

  The howling wind seemed muffled, and the Model A sat as solid as a rock. That didn’t seem right. It should be bucking and shaking like before. The car didn’t move even when Jason shifted his weight back and forth. Could he open the door? It was an insane idea, but he had to know.

  He pushed, then pounded on the side of the vehicle. It wouldn’t budge. He couldn’t get out. A strange calm settled over Jason.

  “Michael. We’re in trouble.”

  “What is it?” Michael coughed between words.

  “We’re buried.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Sara kept her eyes shut against the flying dirt. The wintry gale assaulted her. She staggered, trying to stay on her feet. With one hand clutching Beatrice and the other shielding her face, Sara crept forward, keeping to the path pictured in her mind. Tears dried on her cheeks. She was in a cold, black void of shrieking wind, pelted by wind-driven dirt. The tenant house should lay just ahead. Don’t panic, she thought. Curve left. Find the porch. Climb the steps. Get inside.

  Sara grasped Bea’s arm, leading her forward. “We’re almost there!” A blast of wind from an unexpected quarter sent both women stumbling backward. A branch hit Sara’s wrist. For an instant, her grip loosened, and Bea’s fingers tore away. Sara reached out to snatch her hand, wrist—anything—but she disappeared.

  Gone!

  Sara fell to her hands and knees, crawling in a frantic circle, fanning her arms in all directions. Nothing! She scurried in a widening arc, sweeping her arms from side to side. How could she have lost her? Breathing was difficult. Grit filled her nose and mouth. She coughed up balls of muddy phlegm only to breathe in more dirt. Whipping cold stole the warmth from her. How could the temperature have spiraled down so quickly?

  Sara slapped a yielding form and lunged forward. She found an arm, staggered to her feet, hauling the smaller woman up as well. They embraced—an island of comfort amid the fury raging around them.

  Sara cried with relief and raised a fist at the monster storm. “We’re not dying here!” The maelstrom whisked her voice away and answered with a mocking boom. The chilly wind filled her mouth with dust.

  But there was a problem. Her mental path to the house had whirled away in her scramble to find Bea. Where was the porch? She couldn’t see. Wind shrieked in her ears. Dust covered grass and driveway alike. She had no landmarks to go by. The house could be anywhere.

  They were lost.

  Sara tried to peek under lowered eyelids, hoping to glimpse the house. No luck. The world was darkness and stinging dust. All she could do was listen and pray for a stray sound to guide them in the right direction.

  Sara sensed Bea was nearing her limit. Desperate measures would soon force her to pick a direction and hope for the best. And if she was wrong?

  Concentrate! The wind wailed around them, but not always in the same direction. Sometimes, the current struck from a different direction, the way it blows around a large structure. And there was a subtle clue within the wind. An occasional thump more felt than heard. The big wind bursts also brought a booming sound, like a gunshot. Two separate, distinct sounds: the subtle thump and the boom. Were the sounds connected?

  Boom!

  There it was again. Not quite like a gunshot. The sharp report was more like a heavy mass bouncing off a high barrier. Like a wall. Where was it? It was hard to pinpoint. Sara tried to form an image that matched the sound. She listened, seeing with her ears. Come on. One more time.

  A gust of wind, a subtle thump and…Boom!

  Heavy boards slapped against a wall above, almost overhead. A feminine figure had watched her that first day, sitting outside a window. A high window with heavy wooden shutters.

  Bea leaned against her side, sliding down. No more time. Sara took her bearings, grabbed Bea’s arm, and pointed where she intended to run. They dashed together. Eight. Nine. Ten paces.

  She tripped and fell. Wood barked her shins, and she sprawled on steps. Ignoring the pain, Sara pulled Bea to her feet and charged at the door. Locked! Both women pounded on the entry until it opened. A surprised Mrs. Chapman stood in front of her wheelchair, gaping at them as they rushed inside.

  They were safe at last. So why did she feel so uneasy? As if the storm just claimed a part of her.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Sara staggered into the house, reaching for the banister. She bent over the rail, gasping for breath. Gray dirt covered her from head to toe. She sank to the stairs, wiping grit from her face. Even in the shelter of the house, the air was thick with dust. Drawing a careful breath, she scanned the murky common room, trying to fathom the frenzied activity amid the dim light.

  Bea sat huddled in a nearby rocker. At the entrance, Mrs. Chapman was on hands and knees, stuffing rags beneath the front door, her wheelchair to one side. But it was the rest of the room that held Sara spellbound.

  Kerosene lanterns gave the air a hazy glow. Ghostly forms cast distorted shadows. Mrs. Eisner stood on a chair nailing one corner of a quilt over a window while Miss Underwood hammered in the other end. Mr. Emerson and toothless Mr. Wunch shredded bedding while Mrs. Robson dunked the rags in a bucket and stuffed the wet cloth around the front windows. A battle was being fought; the shrieking elements wanted in and the residents strove to keep the fury out.

  Gloria and Miss Underwood stepped away from the window as Patrick slogged into the common room, setting down two buckets of water. The matron pointed to the quilt, and Patrick threw sheets of water on the bedspread with a ladle. Glancing her direction, the matron made her way to Sara, swabbing her face with a rag. “You’re alive! We thought you two were lost in the storm. Can you help us fortress the house?”

  Sara nodded and pointed to the small form in the chair. “Look after Bea. She has a shoulder wound. Deer struck her.”

  Mrs. Eisner glanced at Beatrice. “We’ve had our hands full down here. I can’t spare a person to check the infirmary. Will you do that? I’ll tend to the girl.”

  Mr. Evans’ open window!

  Sara bolted up the darkening stairs, heedless of the ache in her ribs. The infirmary hallway lay in total darkness. Sara thrust an arm before her, feeling her way to his room. Wind howled behind the thick door. Cyrus Evans was in there. Dear God. Grabbing the oval knob, she steeled herself, ripped open the door, and tore into the room.

  It felt like being outside again. A solid mass of dirt, sand, and cedar needles streamed through the wide-open window. Sara grabbed the sash and slammed it down. She felt for the rocker, finding it and the overturned rolling table. A blanket lay on the floor but no Cyrus. Was he hiding under his covers? She lunged to where the bed should have been. Nothing but gritty, dirty sheets. Maybe he made it to the hallway. No, that was wishful thinking. He was here in this room. With a groan, Sara dropped to the dirt-covered floor, scrambling to find the old man.

  Her friend.

  She found him lying in a corner, buried under a mound of dust and sand. Sara uncovered his head. Dirt encrusted his eyes, nose, and mouth. Where grit met drool or tears, it hardened. With a cry, she brushed his face clean, pulled his mouth open, and used her fingers to clear his throat. Sara put her ear to his mouth, hoping for a sign of breath. Nothing. Her hand dug under his thin shirt, feeling for a heartbeat. Her fingers quivered so badly it was impossible to tell.

  Sobbing, Sara swept a portion of the floor free of the dirt. Gently, she rolled the old man to his stomach, making sure his mouth wasn’t blocked. Then she knelt over him and pressed down on his back with the palms of her hands. She remembered a demonstration about life-saving in a high school class six years ago. I hope I’m doing this right. She released, waited a moment, and then pressed again.

  Out goes the bad air. I left him with the window wide open.

  In goes the good air. I left him to
the dust storm.

  Press. I am responsible for this.

  Release. I killed him.

  Push out the bad air. Please, God. I’ll make a deal.

  Let in the good air. I’ll do anything. Just bring him back.

  Push. I’m his guardian.

  Release. And if he’s dead?

  Push. I’ve failed.

  Precious minutes passed. She needed to check on the others. Save the living. Give up the dead.

  But I can’t abandon Mr. Evans.

  The air was thick with dust. She bent over, overtaken by a spasm of coughing.

  Face the truth.

  He was gone. She must take care of the others.

  Face the music.

  It was her fault. She would have to pay.

  Sara staggered to her feet, feeling in the darkness for the bed. She grabbed a cover and found her way back to Mr. Evans, drawing the sheet over him. With tears streaming down her face, she ran her hands along the wall, found the door, and stumbled out of the death chamber.

  In the hallway, Sara found a wall lamp. She fished in her apron for a match, found one, and struck it. Turning the wick brought the light to full brightness. That was better, though dust was creeping into the passage. What should she do about the patients? No one should be alone. Everyone needed to be safe and together. Drawing a breath, Sara lit more wall lamps and opened the door to the next occupied room.

  A few minutes later, she opened Maxine’s door. Sara held up a lantern she found on a nightstand. “I’m moving you to the hall with the others, Mrs. Hiebert. You can’t stay in here.”

  “What’s happening?” Maxine held her bed sheet over her mouth. Her muffled voice held a raspy edge. “It sounds terrible outside.”

  “Dust storm. It’s easier to breath in the hallway.” Sara grabbed a rail and pulled the rolling bed past the door, slamming it behind her. She parked Maxine near a smiling little man.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Maxine seized her arm. “Where’s Patrick?”

  “Helping downstairs. He’s very busy right now.”