The Tenth Saint by D. J. Niko

details of his past were still sketchy, he knew that what he’d seen was much worse than anything an angry desert could muster, for it had been brought forth by the most sinister workings of men.
    He wrapped his headdress tightly around his face, taking care not to leave even a hairline opening through which the sand could enter. It was time to take shelter. Through the indigo gauze of his veil, he looked for the others. Some were hunkering down behind a dune inside a perimeter of blankets tied together. The women were huddled inside a tent, trying to quiet their howling children, for whom there was no comfort. One tiny boy, choking with the dust already thick in the air, bolted out of the tent, falling as he ran up a dune to escape the madness. His mother screamed hysterically after him.
    Gabriel bade her stay in the tent and ran after the boy himself. “Come here, you little devil,” he shouted in English, unable under stress to recall any Bedouin words. “You will die. Do you hear me? You will die!”
    He was surprised how fast the toddler could run, his feet accustomed to the sinking sands of the desert.
    Gabriel struggled for air. The tempest was almost upon them. “Stop, damn you. Stop right now, or you will kill us both.”
    The ground had gone dark in the cloud’s shadow. Gabriel looked over his shoulder and saw the massive wall of sand approach with violent speed. Any second now it would swallow them. He resisted the urge to panic and turned back to the boy. The little one was on all fours, crying and coughing so hard vomit spewed from his mouth. Gabriel fell on top of him, sheltering his tiny body with his arms as the apocalyptic cloud swept over.
    The next few minutes or hours—Gabriel wasn’t sure—were endless. He felt as if he were in a tomb deep underground, unable to breathe or hear or see. His senses were prisoners of the eternal dust. All he could feel were the frenzied grains of sand whipping his hunched back with no remorse. The feeling was akin to being dragged by a truck across a gritty dirt road. Sure his back was raw and bleeding, he tried to transcend the pain by making sense of what was happening.
    It is the way of nature to seek balance. Balance is necessary for all living things. Out of calamity comes balance and order. He kept repeating the mantra in his mind, but he was not strong enough to believe it. His thoughts turned to doom. His mind’s eye was flooded with images of darkness and fire, vicious clouds of smoke from which there was no escape, people lying dead at his feet, trees as black and brittle as spent charcoal. He saw the pale blue eyes of a boy staring at him vacantly, frozen in death. He gritted his teeth to prevent the sobs from spewing forth, and his mouth filled with the metallic taste of sand granules scraping at his teeth and gums like coarse sandpaper. The sobs came anyway, then the screams of despair, then nothing.

    The next thing he felt was a stick poking his ribs.
    “Abyan. Abyan.” The voice of Hairan was muffled, as if he were talking from behind a glass wall.
    Gabriel rose slowly, pounds of sand rolling off his head and body. He ripped his headdress off his face and gasped for air.
    Day was breaking.
    “I must have passed out.” He suddenly remembered his tiny companion. “The boy.” Alarmed by his own caliginous thoughts, he clawed at the sand. “Where is the boy?”
    “He is with his mother. She is very grateful that you saved his life.”
    “And the others?”
    Hairan fell silent. A vague mist covered his ebony eyes.
    Gabriel looked down at the makeshift camp and saw very little commotion. The women’s tent had been ripped to shreds. Bits of burlap attached to tent posts fluttered in a weak breeze. What was left of the fabric was strewn here and yonder. The men’s protective barrier of blankets, rickety to begin with, had vanished, probably swallowed by the voracious monster of dust. He heard crying—but not ordinary crying. These were the