Dead Men's Dust

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Jubal's hollow.

    Sounds nice, doesn't it? Like one of those gentle Appalachian towns with timber-framed houses and split-rail fences. Where life takes a leisurely pace: where people actually sit on their sun-dappled porches beside a pitcher of homemade lemonade with beads of condensation. Can you almost hear the rustle of branches overhanging slow-moving rivers, the shuffle of wildlife in the long grass?

    Nice, huh?

    The vision couldn't be further from the truth.

    Try this instead.

    Nothing but scrub, sand, and more sand. Blistering midday sun, unbearable cold at night. Harsh rock formations surrounded by a blasted earthscape. Nothing lives here.

    Death is the only resident. Ever present. Waiting, waiting.

    Look closely. Bones litter the sand, some the petrified remains of creatures that lived in the mud of prehistoric swamps, but some are more recent. There are the bones of birds and small animals that limped here searching for nonexistent water.

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