When the Dust Settled
Matthew Ryan Fischer
The air was thick with dust. A footprint reminded visible in the
broken soil. A shrub brush gripped the earth, began to loosen with every new
gust of wind.
Inch-by-inch he moved forward, weighed by the tactical gear
strapped to his back, pushed backwards from the increasing storm. The goggles
were covered with dust, as was the mask he wore. His lungs hurt with each breath.
His muscles tired from the strain. Sooner rather than later, he knew he would collapse.
It was all too much. He could only push so hard so far for so long.
The stone obelisk might have been a marker of distance. It could
have indicated the remains of a place of worship or the beginning of the ruins
of a once great civilization. There were carvings and perhaps an insignia, but
his vision was too strained as it was to examine the finer details. He prayed
it meant he was close to shelter. He feared in was just another remainder of
something lost long ago.
Then he was on one knee, hacking and coughing as dirt filled his
mouth, throat and lungs. He couldn’t breathe. The dust storm was death.
Stone. A pillar. Or a foot. A statue with an engraving. He couldn’t
read it. Couldn’t see. It was a lost cause.
Slowly the dust pilled up.
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