The sandstorm hit the wind breaks at Yuma in the afternoon. The town’s children were safe underground, ancient air units nursed into life to filter out any goo particles before they could reach the children’s lungs.
Walter slipped his goggles down and pulled his scarf up, watching the cloud billowing toward them.
Walter retreated into the town, closing the door of the general store to wait for the sand to pass. He huddled close with the others. They were quiet, expectant, and resigned.
Walter remembered his father. Goo had gotten into him during a sandstorm. Every few years, somebody dies of some malady brought on by old tech. Weird tumors, erractic intelligence, metals in the skin. Walter’s father had red developed stripes, some sort of aesthetic feature. At first, everyone was relieved. A man with stripes, the people of Yuma had seen stranger things.
A month later, the stripes became swollen and rough. Walter’s father died soon after.
The storm hit, and everyone tried not to breathe.