Wally West's Arc

Chapter 2 of 5

The sandstorm hit the shelter's edge. Wally stepped through the doorway and the wind slapped him. Sand filled the air like brown fog. He squinted down the flat ground toward the settlement. He saw nothing. No landmarks. No path. The route he had planned was gone behind a wall of grit. He pulled the cracked vial close to his chest. Running blind meant running into rocks. Running into rocks meant another fall. Another fall meant the last half of the cure spilled into the dirt. He could not risk it. But standing still let the storm bury them both. "Dad, we have to move." Wally West jr crowded behind him, one hand gripping his father's belt. The boy still held the little fan. Its curved white frame hummed against the wind. "I can see shapes. Low ones. Over there." Wally looked where his son pointed. He saw only churning sand. The kid had sharper eyes, or more faith. Three days ago Wally had told him to stay home. The boy had followed anyway. Now his stubbornness might be the only thing moving them forward. "You can't see shapes in that," Wally said. "I can." Wally West jr lifted the fan and turned it outward. The blades spun hard. The small gust pushed a clear pocket in the sand, just wide enough to see one step ahead. "It clears the air. Watch." The boy was right. The fan's breeze carved a hole in the dust. Beyond it, Wally made out the low shapes. Boulders. A line of them, spaced apart. A safe lane between. "Keep it pointed forward," Wally said. "Don't lower it." They ran. Wally kept one hand on the vial and one on his son's shoulder. The boy held the fan ahead like a lantern. Each burst of air opened a new patch of ground. They slipped between the first boulder and the second. The storm howled but they stayed clear of the rocks. Then the fan sputtered. The blades slowed. The hum dropped to a whine. The clear pocket shrank and the sand rushed back in. "It's dying," the boy shouted. "The sun charge is running out." Wally pulled them both behind the nearest boulder. He pressed his back to the stone and dragged his son against him. The wind screamed past the edges. In the shelter of the rock, Wally checked the vial. Still whole. Half a dose, still safe. The fan clicked off. Dead. They had crossed the first stretch. They were past the worst rocks. But now they crouched behind a boulder with no way to see ahead, the storm thick around them, and the only tool that cleared the air gone silent in the boy's hands. "We made it this far," Wally said. He gripped his son's arm. "Now we find out how to cross the rest."