Wally West's Arc

Chapter 3 of 5

The sand climbed the boulder. Wally felt it pour against his boots and bury his ankles. The storm had stalled over them, dumping grit in one place. He kicked his feet free, but more sand slid in. In minutes the pile reached his knees. He grabbed his son's arm and pulled. The boy's legs were half-sunk too. "We can't dig out," Wally said. "It fills faster than we clear it." Wally West jr stared at the dead fan in his hands. His red mask was caked with dust. "The battery's gone," the boy said. "But the blades still turn. I felt them when I shook it." He gripped the handle and spun the center by hand. The blades moved. A thin puff of air stirred the sand near his wrist. "That won't clear a path," Wally said. "It's too weak." "Not to see with." The boy's green eyes fixed on the sand creeping up the stone. "To breathe with. If we go under, we need air." He pressed the fan to the boulder's base and cranked the blades. A small pocket opened in the sand, just big enough for a face. Wally understood. They could not outrun the pile. But the storm stalled only here. If they crawled low along the boulder's edge, out from under the worst of it, they might reach open ground. He pulled his son down. Sand poured over their backs. The boy kept spinning the fan, carving a breath of space ahead, inch by inch. They crawled. Wally held the cracked vial against his chest with one arm and dragged with the other. His son cranked the fan and pushed through the gap it made. Twice the sand collapsed on them. Twice the boy's little pocket of air kept them from choking. Wally clawed forward toward the edge of the pile. Then his hand hit loose, shifting sand instead of packed weight. Light leaked through the grit above. They had reached the storm's edge. Wally burst up and hauled his son after him. They lay flat on open ground. The wind still blew, but it moved here, carrying the sand away instead of stacking it. Wally rolled over and checked the vial. A new crack ran along the glass. A bead of liquid clung to the rim, ready to fall. He cupped his hand under it and held his breath. The drop stayed. Half a dose, minus whatever he lost before. "We're out," the boy gasped. He still clutched the fan. The blades had stopped turning. His knuckles were raw from spinning them. Wally looked ahead. The ground ran flat and open, but he saw no boulders now to mark the path. The lane they had followed was buried behind them. They were free of the storm's trap, past the rocks. But the vial was leaking, and he no longer knew which way led to the settlement.