Twisting in the Wind
Every day, in the middle of the desert, it happens. The devils gather to dance, twisting and writhing in the deadly heat. The only sign of them is a little spiral of wind and dust, what we called dust devils even before devils were real.
Well, the dust devils used to be the only sign, before the sky exploded and everything became wrong, before Vegas was taken over by a host of creatures better left unseen. Now, the devils, like the rest of them, have no shame.
Now we can see their distorted, ecstatic dance in the wind, those of us who watch long enough.
People tell me it’s the heat, that I stay out too long, that I’m just another crazy Sentinel, but it’s true. I’m just the only one here willing to look.
I shouldn’t look. They keep asking me to dance with them. I’m tempted.
That is their way, right? To tempt, to lure. They tease with the promise of wreckless abandon, of freedom from the whispers and stares. I could go with them. Then I wouldn’t be crazy.
I could.
But if I leave, who will warn the rest when things start happening again?
Does it matter? I could go…