Sands of Time

Des couldn’t stay in his apartment any longer. Being stuck between the same four walls drove him insane. He didn’t care that the sandstorm might kill him. He was afraid of what he might do to himself if he had to spend another day locked up inside. The man needed that change of scenery, even if it meant walking around into an ocean of flying sand and dust.

The sandstorm has been plaguing this part of the world for as long as Des could remember. It was one of those supermassive sandstorms. They were a rare weather phenomenon, but whenever one hit, it could destroy entire continents. The biggest danger of the sandstorm was inhaling too much dust, or getting lost and buried under the sand. Des didn’t have to worry about either. He’s been living inside this desert twister for long enough to know how it works.

He shot up to his feet, got dressed, and covered up his face, leaving only the eyes visible. Walking out of the house, he nearly forgot his sunglasses, prompting him to return inside and pick them up. Des might’ve been burnt out by sitting at home, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew he couldn’t walk around outside with his eyes exposed to the treacherous golden typhoon.

People could leave their houses after dark when the heat of the sun did not exacerbate the terrible conditions. Society inside the sandstorm did not die out, on the contrary, it thrived. By becoming nocturnal, everything shifted from day to night. Humanity adapted and carried on its usual course. Some people had speculated that the shift from day life to nocturnal one was made for some dubious reasons. It couldn’t have been just the need to avoid the heat, according to those skeptics. Entire societies existed for millennia in the desert, operating mainly in broad daylight. Some have come to speculate about the existence of sandstorm monsters that lurk around during the day, hunting unsuspecting humans who roam around in the daytime.

Des never believed in monsters of any kind. He was a realist, a pragmatist. Whatever he couldn’t explore and study simply did not exist in his mind. He knew that the shift from day to night in human life was done in the pursuit of better living conditions. At night, the temperatures dropped and the sandy wind was the only remaining inconvenience.

During the night it was easier to avoid the mummified remains of people who died as a result of the storm. People who were unfortunate enough to inhale too much sand or died because of the heat would be often left where they dropped. No one ever bothered picking up the remains of others. It wasn’t worth it, burying a loved one meant nothing. The storm would cover up the gravestone and any other non-megalithic markers. Once this was clear to all, people started burying their loved ones in their yards, but this changed little. The living were all left with a few corpses beneath their sand-covered yards. The dead were buried “somewhere around here” as the saying went. Life inside the storm turned everyone cynical, and no one seemed to mind.

Des had seen a fair share of mummified corpses; he was used to them. At the start of this whole thing, he was part of the family business. They were undertakers. Then people stopped caring about burials and the family business crumbled. Death was no longer the steadiest income source on the face of the planet. After all, who needs undertakers when you’ve got no one to bury or cremate or anything of that sort?

Des’ life was a constant flow of monotonous moments. He didn’t care for much, he didn’t love much, nor did he hate. He wasn’t too preoccupied with anything. He didn’t have any friends or relatives left to care for. He was a lone man without much of a soul to feel lonely with. He was kind of just there. Barely existing. A single grain of sand in the vast desert.

He didn’t even have much to think about, he simply needed a change in scenery. A new stimulus in its basest form. Just something different, even if it was different just for a few moments. That’s probably why he was so startled when he stepped on a dried-up corpse. He was so lost in the nothingness inside of his mind he didn’t even notice he stepped on something. The familiar yet foreign sound of a bone-cracking underneath his shoe caught him by surprise. He jumped a good foot away from the mummy and cursed out loud. Then he shot a glare at the shriveled corpse and continued on his way to nowhere in particular.

A dry groan caught his attention. He turned around and saw nobody. Only jets of golden-brown sand flying all over. He turned back and started pacing again. The groaning echoed in his ears again, sending shivers down his spine. He turned around and still saw nothing but sand dancing in the air. Suddenly the ground shifted not far from where he stood. It was subtle. Almost like a mirage. Des stood and stared for a few moments before turning back again. He thought he must’ve been seeing this. The storm was known to play tricks on the minds of people before. Legends circulated that it was “alive” and preyed on people. Like some sick spirit, or a god that secluded them and then killed them for some sinister purpose.

Once he turned, his heart sank to his heels. The mummy stood before him. Its impossibly lanky form seemed to spread all over Des’ field of vision. The thing’s face stretched into a feral scream. The eye sockets were sunken far into the skull, missing the eyeballs. The thing seemed like a nightmare come to life. The pitch-black holes where eyes once should’ve been and the mostly toothless mouth appeared like miniature black holes. They appeared to be full of rage and malice. As if angry at the fact that Des was alive.

He tried running away, but he wasn’t quick enough – before he could move, the mummy grabbed him by the throat. A burning hot sensation ran across his throat. He tried to scream, but no sound would come. He tried to break free from the monster’s grip, but it was deceptively strong. Soon enough, he felt his feet leave the ground. No matter how much he struggled, the mummified thing would not let go of his neck. The burning sensation got worse with each passing moment. It started spreading all over his body. The heat made its way across his skin, his flesh, and his bones. His muffled screams must’ve amused the walking corpse as his blood boiled within his frame. The man’s skin dried out and stretched itself over his dwindling frame. The pain in his throat felt like the desert was trying to crawl into him. The sensations of burning hot sand and diamond shards in his trachea and esophagus tortured him for long minutes before he finally couldn’t handle the pain anymore. Des felt himself fade as everything turned black.

The heat persisted; however, it wouldn’t go away. With it persisted the burning, itching, cutting pulsating pain that was centered in his throat. Des opened his eyes and screamed as hard as he could. A loud and expressive roar filled with rage and anguish. That’s what he was trying to let out, at least. What came out was a hoarse, shrill, pathetic cry. The sweet, sweet metallic taste of hemoglobin-rich blood teased his taste buds, but that’s all it was – a tease.

A painfully familiar scene greeted his eyes.

His mind returned to the reality in which he was a ravenous ghoul. A monstrous beast who sunk his bony claws into the shoulders of the woman whose throat he just tore open with his teeth. The thirst was too much again. He needed to quench it. Her blood was meant to be enough, but he wasn’t quick enough to drink it.

She was already drying up. The instant he touched her, it was all over. Chunks of her fiery red hair were falling out of her dried-up scalp. His touch dried up any organic tissue he came into contact with into literal sand. His Midas touch was evaporating the liquid inside them. Inside all of them.

The redhead was about to turn into a pile of dust before the ghoul could alleviate his agony even just a bit. Exactly like the rest of his victims. Before he could even notice, the woman was already nothing but a pile of dead specs. The ghoul’s hope for a meal being washed away in the sands of time. The passage of time was the ghoul’s worst enemy. Even the hunger wasn’t as bad as the passage of time. For time had reminded him every now and again that there was no hope for a thing like him.

The woman, sucked dry by a cursed rustic dermis, she wasn’t any different from the substance now moving in the beast’s arteries. The ghoul fell to his knees, crying out like a dying animal whose throat had been crushed. He was condemned to roam the earth until the end of times, forever thirsty, forever unable to quench his thirst.

For those who commit the crime of spilling the blood and consuming the flesh of those who offer hospitality within the realm of the desert, there is no mercy.

It is only fitting that the punishment for such a crime is a fate far worse than death.