Sandrunners

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Blue for the mind. Green for the body. Red for the fire. Black for the push… And white. She paused in the recitation to issue a giggle, so shrill and barely controlled she could scarcely credit it came from her own mouth. White for the madness.

The sand gave way beneath her feet, tipping her face first into the dune she had been climbing, rust stinging her lips and invading her mouth. She choked and gagged, finding she had no spit to clear the metallic tang and scraping at her mouth with feverish fingers. “The Red Sands,” Wittler had said when they first caught sight of the crimson dunes three days gone. He had shouldered his long-rifle and crouched to scoop up a handful of the red dust. “Except it ain’t sand, Miss Ethy. See?” He held out his hand and she peered at the tiny flakes in his palm. “Rusted,” Wittler said, holding his hand up to let the wind take the flakes away. “All that’s left of whatever stood here before the Crater.”

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