DUST
By Al Sarrantonio
They passed the signs, three in a row a half-mile apart, off Route 40 just after the sun went down. The first read:
It was white metal, with green lettering, just like all the road markers and speed limit signs they’d passed all the way through the Appalachians.
“What do you suppose it means?” Mary asked, and then they came to the second, which read:
followed by the third, which stated simply:
Mary strained her eyes ahead, looking for more signs, but that was all. She was propped forward in the front seat, in the same expectant position she’d held through the whole car trip. Though it had started out as a vacation, with a short side trip to Chapel Hill to pick up a few personal effects (a favorite serving dish, a bible, a picture book Mary had loved to look at when she was a child) of her Aunt Clara, who had passed away the year before, it had turned into something more: a revisit to her childhood.
She turned in the seat to regard her husband. “What do you suppose they were? I don’t remember them ever being there when I was young.”
“Beats me,” Adam answered, shrugging. He was mid-thirtyish and open faced, a man who worked for an aerospace firm and looked it: there was always a semi-dreaming look on his features. He grinned. “Maybe they’re like those old Burma Shave signs that used to line the highways—some kind of advertising. Maybe a come-on for another one of those antique places or phony country stores we’ve been stopping at for the last three days.”
“We’ve gotten some good bargains!” Mary protested. “That old chest for the hallway, and—”
“A lot of other junk,” Adam laughed, hitching a thumb at the back of the minivan, behind the kids.
“Oh, pooh.”
They drove in silence for a stretch, listening to the soft rock station Mary had found on the radio, the road winding at the edge of the mountain down into a little dip, hiding the sky from them momentarily. Mary drank it all in. After two weeks at this rental-car driving they’d gotten so used to being in the Ford Windstar that it seemed like the natural thing to go exploring through the countryside she’d grown up in. Up until tonight they’d stuck religiously to the main roads; but the late afternoon had looked so gorgeous, with the promise of a high crescent moon later in the evening, that it seemed like the only thing to do would be to take a detour through the inner mountain passes she remembered. After all, Adam was from the Northeast, where they lived now, and the Appalachians were something he and the kids had never seen before. They’d even planned to possibly camp out, though they had hotel reservations a hundred miles further on Route 40. Adam wanted badly to take the telescope out of the trunk and do a little of the sky-gazing he hadn’t managed yet. Such a clear sky. Such a beautiful Moon.
“You wouldn’t believe it,” Mary said, pointing up the dark mountain to their left, “But the hills and hollows around here are packed with people. There are cabins and cottages—”
A moment later, when they emerged into sky again, everything had suddenly changed.
“I don’t believe it,” Mary said, her mouth opening.
Swirling clouds of dusty fog had appeared out of nowhere. Adam cursed; now they’d have to drive on without stopping and find their way back to Route 40.
“Sorry, Adam,” Mary said, putting a hand on his arm.
“Oh, well. I can always see the stars when we get back to Boston. I love that light pollution.”
Mary smiled, and checked on the two girls in the back, who were gazing sleepily out the window.
Five minutes later a wind picked up, and what at first looked like rain began. It came on gently enough, and Adam immediately snapped on the headlights and wipers, but it increased in a steady, serious blowing way that soon alarmed him, to the point where he could barely see the road. The wind increased, and Adam realized that what was swirling around them was not rain but dust.
“What the—”
Dust or ash had completely blanketed the road in front of them, and suddenly, incredibly, when the car shifted to the side under him, he knew that they were in trouble.
He stopped the car when he couldn’t see anything at all. Rolling down the window, he put his head out to check how close to the end of the road the car was. With a sudden drop in his stomach, he discovered that not only couldn’t he see the road but that the road was disappearing beneath them, melting in an upward build of dust. To their right was a steep slope that seemed to be growing closer.
“
“Adam—”
“Don’t panic.” He wanted to panic himself, but some deeper instinct than fear took over.
Gently, he tried to pull the Windstar to the left, away from the edge of the road. There was no response from the car. It was like being on an icy road in New England winter, only worse. This stuff was worse than ice. It reminded him of some of the dry lubricants he had used at work.
He put his head out the window again, and saw that they were sliding toward the edge of the slope.
He forced the wheel to the left, but it was too late to do anything.
Mary saw the cliff, too, and let out a strangled cry—but she quickly muffled it. She reached over the back seat to grab at the two girls, who had begun to wail.
“Hang on,” Adam said grimly.
“
The car slid over.
Then stopped.
At that moment, as if by magic, the dust storm let up. Adam pushed out his breath evenly, gradually unclenching his hands from the steering wheel, and forced himself to look through the slashing wiper blades and dust-caked windshield.
The car was tipped forward at an ominous angle, but was anchored, at least for the moment. He gave silent thanks for the weighty antiques cluttering the rear of the minivan.
“Mary—don’t move.”
She looked wide-eyed at him, still clutching at the crying girls, but said nothing.
Slowly, deliberately, Adam rolled down the window and put his head out.
Just as he’d thought, the car was braced on the brow of the ledge. There was more of it on the road than off, but he could distinctly see the left front bumper dangling over a long, deep drop to the bottom of a shallow canyon.
The sky was an angry, sallow gray-yellow color, filled with swirling dust.
“Oh God,” he said under his breath, and forced himself to begin breathing again.
He brought his head back into the car and rolled up the window.
The car glided forward a foot, then stopped.
“Mary,” he said, forcing his mouth to say the words calmly, “we’re going to have to leave the van.”
She stared at him with animal fear in her eyes. “
“We have to, Mary. I want you to move the kids over to my side; I’m going to get out and then open their door and help them out. I want you to slide across after me.”
The wind was howling again, throwing a ticking hail of ash at the van.
“
The car edged forward another foot, jerking a little to the right, and once more came to rest.
“Put your baseball cap on, Cindy,” Mary said, trying to sound calm.
“No, Mommy, no! I’m scared!”
