Lost Souls

“Windmills…? Impossible,” Me’ark said, guiding his horse through their shadows.

“Fertile land once it seems, son,” Jo’attan said from his place at the column’s head.

“But the Du’buul has been dead since Genesis.”

Jo’attan sighed, “You’ve listened to the Clerics too often. This land is much older.”

“Why would those able to read the Book lie? Didn’t they predict our fate?”

Annoyed, Jo’attan snapped, “Predict or usher? You’re fortunate I don’t hearken to every parable, particularly the one about sacrificing sons. Have I not guided us true?”

Me’ark fell silent, and Jo’attan regretted the outburst. Their march from the mountains had been arduous, and most of the column now yearned for sleep, Jo’attan included. Still, danger stalked these dead lands.

The blistering sun yielded to blustering clouds that would force them to shelter soon, and Jo’attan yearned for the mountains that protected their cult for generations. Now, in these apocalyptic days, even the Great Range’s protection failed, and they were forced to choose–stay and die as the scourging plague of the Westlands overcame them, or risk death in the Du’buul and hope for miraculous sanctuary.

“What’s this?” Me’ark said, pointing toward something lying flat on the dune. “Directions to a refuge?”

Jo’attan slowed, trying to comprehend it. He understood the “2” and “35” in the strange shield-like icon, but “Kansas City” meant nothing to him.

“Let’s turn south. I sense a warning that there’s no shelter here,” Jo’attan instructed, and Me’ark directed the refugees accordingly.

In the distance, thunder rolled.

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A/N:

This was written for the most recent VSS prompt, and also happens to be my 100th Vocal story! More info below:

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