Coming Undone

Chapter 18: White Dunes

Runt felt like he was in a sandblaster. If not for the time displayed in his heads-up, day and night would have been lost to him. The roar of sand and wind filled his ears, despite his suit's muted audio, and the wind clawed at him as he marched up a long, empty path of smooth tile. He could barely hear his own heavy breathing in his helmet, his lungs burning to try and keep up after he'd run half way to his destination from the rail station.

I hope I'm not too late. He thought, straining against the wind as he looked up into the black, swirling sands. His headlamps cut a swath of light into the gloom, but revealed nothing.

Yet he knew where he was. He'd followed the streets meticulously. He'd double checked before he took any turn. He'd just arrived at the venue he'd booked for his friends:

The White Dunes Lounge.

Runt pressed ahead.

Things seem fine...

His attempts to comfort himself were mostly vain. His limbs were cold and clammy despite exertion, and anxiety still gnawed at his intestines like a parasite. Visions of what he might find flashed through his mind now and then, and it took gritted teeth and clenched fists to dim those visions as he bounded into the storm, hoping to arrive soon enough.

And he'd know soon if he had.

If he'd failed...

Or become the hero.

A bit of warm light started to show through the blizzard of sand. The entrance.

Runt swallowed, and bumped his hand against the sidearm still pinned to his hip.

His abdomen cinched up as he imagined having to use it.

He came to the door, and pulled it open with his entire weight. He slithered through alongside a belch of sand as the door slammed shut behind him like a pair of jaws.

I hope everybody's ok.

He started towards the second layer of doors, and pressed his gloved fingers up against the underside of his helmet, undoing the manual releases and starting to pry off the suffocating mask.

He elbowed his way through the next door, pulled his helmet off, and scanned the vast entrance for danger.

He found none, but didn't stop to feel the release. Runt wedged his helmet under his arm, and started a hurried, almost-frantic walk towards the back where he'd reserved a section for his party.

Stupid idea! He scolded himself, panting as he waved off a staffer.

I never should have set up a party.

He huffed, lifting his feet into a jog as he bounded across the floor and up a three-step rise to the lounge.

It's never been safe enough, especially now.

He threw his gaze across the lounge, searching for friends.

I can't believe I put them in dan-

Runt's thoughts froze in a blast of relief.

The section he'd reserved was full. Maybe two-dozen friends waited around tables, in seats, and lounged in plush couches.

And around them, guards.

Runt felt himself pause between a smile and a frown as he processed the dozen armed guards, each with a rifle slung. Were they friendly?