Chapter 1: Omen in the Wind

The sky was bruise-hued, purple, an ugly-looking canvas dotted with burning yellow veins. Silas, owner, boss, and only clerk of the "Dust Devil Motel," struggled on the weathered porch, spitting in the gusts that were increasing in anger. The gust was full of ozone and dust, burning his tongue like a nightmare gone awry. He'd traveled through storms getting here and home, but this. This was different.

He knocked the brim of his dirty, well-worn cowboy hat in a last effort to dislodge the whirlwind dust devils that frolicked on dry ground. The Dust Devil Motel was a dime - four small, dirty rooms on top a dirty bar pungent with stale whiskey and shattered dreams. It was the only strand of civilization for miles around, packed into a parched little bowl between the wreckage of Old Mesa and the gaudy skyline where the metal rovers moved.

He spat a halo of tobacco saliva into dust. "Gonna be no good," he grumbled, but his grumble was drowned out by the screaming rise of the gale. This was not rain. This was a tempest that bore secrets, shook the skulls of the old city and shrieked down the wind.

A blur of movement caught his eye. In the distance, a single headlight blazed through the darkness at terrifying velocity. Some guy in some kind of motorcycle, not the battered, slobbied-up two-wheels that scavengers used, but some black and vile, some post-war crap land factory floor-pillaged technological marvel.

Silas rose and stood there, his gut sick. This storm was bringing all sorts of individuals. There were drunks, rabble-rousers, and individuals in need.

The motorcycle growled nearer, a cloud of dust and oncoming night. Black in whirling sky, the rider was calling up the storm. Silas remained motionless until he believed he'd roar on past when the motorcycle took a left turn, tires scattering gravel, as it pulled into the Dust Devil Motel.

Chapter 2: Water and Scars

The overhead bell clanged, rusty and out of tune, the stranger's summons. Silas, wiping the counter with a rag whose creases contained centuries of stories, waited. The man was as unshaven and disheveled as a gnarled oak, scarred by the lines of a bitter, unhappy life. Late fifties, his face weathered and worn, seasoned to the world. Dust covered his frayed leather jacket and dry denim of jeans, as if mummified by the earth itself.

The stranger leaned in the doorway, wiping away the sticky dust. Silas pulled on a sleeve of authority. "Never mind. It's a dust box, no use fighting it."

The man grunted brusquely, his eyes scanning the barroom. He slid wearily smoothly onto a stool at the bar.

"What'll it be?" Silas asked with a grasping voice

The stranger's eyes met Silas'; his eyes steel-gray in the fading light. "Water," he croaked. "Just water."

Silas looked up, but clamped down, pouring a glass from an iron pitcher. Its water was dense and warm. He would not judge a man on what he imbibed in a house like this one.

The stranger swallowed it in great draughts, his adam's apple sticking out. And glared at Silas again, his eyes sunk in.

"You got a room?"

Silas leaned against the bar, his eyes tilting downward. "Got one. Spent an arm and a leg for it this evening."

The stranger's eyes turned cold. "Why?"

"Storm's brewing," Silas told him, twisting his lips into a smile.

The stranger gazed at him eternally before he let out a sigh. "Room. Food and water to eat with it."

Silas smiled. "Deal. Twenty scraps." Scraps were desert currency - bits of salvaged metal, wire, anything that would do or could be resold.

The stranger dipped into his jacket and pulled out a pouch of pieces of metal, counted out the shreds and lay them on the bar.

"Bathrooms in the back," Silas gestured, nodding toward a creaking back door at the rear of the tavern. "Shared bathhouse. Old Maisie takes care of it. She cleans it up there."

The stranger nodded, taking the key Silas extended to him. He uncoiled slowly, cracking his joints. He walked back, a bolt of lightning struck the building, and windows rattled.

Silas sat, a knot in the pit of his stomach. He knew. This storm was going to dump, trouble.

"Yeah," Silas growled into the cold concrete of the bar.

"Going to be trouble all right,"

Chapter 3: The Bathhouse

The bathhouse was a minute walk from the bar, itself a hunched, gaunt thing that stank of disinfectants and steam. There was Maisie, her face, a map of wrinkles whose age she did not see fit to divulge.

The stranger entered, the storm yelping at his heels. Maisie's head jerked up; bony eyes suspicious.

"Silas sent me," the stranger said, his voice echoing off the steam room. "Told me I could have the bath."

Maisie nodded, still looking at his face. "Five shreds for the bath, two for the wash. Good price, with the storm on."

The answer was in a grunt. Maisie handed him a large hunk of coarse soap and two washcloths. "Shower in the back. Laundry cart out in front of the door. Put your clothes there. You can sit rest in the hot pools meanwhile you wait."

The stranger grunted once more, accepting the soap and towels.

He took his clothes entering the bath area, Maisie's own keen eyes dropped to the feral patchwork of wounds striated across his back and arms, a topography of violence inscribed upon his skin. Some pinched, white and very old. Some red welts of recent fury stand out against his coarse-grained skin.

A second growl of thunder shook the air. "Gonna be a bad one," Maisie said, her voice all but taken away by the keening wind.

She pushed the loaded the laundry cart. It felt heavier than she'd anticipated, heavier than she'd imagined from the stranger's body. She blamed that on the thick weight of the denim and the dirt that was imbedded in the fabric of each fold.

Under the shower cubicle, in scalding hot water, the stranger hung under the wash, so it would wash off at the dust, the grime. He shut his eyes and rammed himself into the tiling hard.

He recalled the gusts of wind blowing through his hair, the adrenalin coursing through his veins as he ran from the tempest.

A few minutes went by, and he went over to one of the pools, water hot and medicinal. He sat down, chin on his knees, and wrapped a towel around his head.

"Only a little rest," he gasped, voice hardly louder than the rumble of the storm out there on the horizon. "Only a little?"

Chapter 4: Secrets in the Steam

Time went by. Warmth of water, beat of rain on the roof, shut and wrapped him in a blur of half-vision. Shattered memory, shattered recall, out of a bygone flash. Dead faces, dying screaming men, bitter metallic taste of blood on his lips.

He pushed them down, deep down in the back of his mind. He did not sleep. He could not rest yet.

A voice that roused him. "Your clothes are ready!" Maisie's hacking through the door into the shower room.

He inched higher and knocked his head to dispel the mist from it. He could sense her on the far side of the frosted glass, black form against colored light.

He swam up and out of the pool and dried himself with a towel, securing the towel around his body. He did feel a little improved now, hot water having relaxed and warmed some of the agony from his battered body.

He walked towards the door, taking his clean clothes. They were tight and stiff on him but clean.

He walked towards the door, he paused, Massie standing behind the counter. "Not so many people enjoy this bathhouse as you did," she snarled, her voice was low.

"Whoa, long time," it said.

He emerged from the shower room, before the old woman. She was glaring at him, her hunted eyes full of suspicion.

As he departed, she couldn't help but observe that she had seen ancient wounds on his body. A secret in his eyes, a fatigue that attested to a bitter and repressed past. And his clothes. They had been so weighed down, as if something heavier than mire and water had dragged them down.

Outside, the tempest blustered like wind and rain. Darkness hung around the outside of the Dust Devil Motel now, and darkness. Maisie huddled the frayed blanket tighter about her, trembling.

Deep inside the bones of her body, she was sure the stranger had summoned up something more than dust. He'd conjured up a storm of his own, one that would consume them all.

Chapter 5: Harbinger of the Storm

The door slammed shut, its sound swallowed by the sudden, savage onset of the storm. Lightning rent the skies, illuminating the rundown motel for an instant before plunging it back into darkness. The thunder that followed was a palpable force, shaking the foundations of the building, a promise of the havoc it would wreak.

In the dimly lit tavern, a buzz of conversation hummed, a low thrum of indecipherable conversation brought on by bottom-shelf whiskey and boredom. The air was thick with the smell of stale beer and desperation. Into this setting, the stranger walked in alone, an anomaly among the tired faces and bruised souls.

He moved with a quiet confidence, a subtle shift in the atmosphere. The stranger ascended the creaking wooden stairs, his heavy boots thudding against the worn planks. He reached a room on the second floor, a temporary refuge from the storm. He shed his gear with haste, a heavy leather jacket and a futuristic-style helmet that told of a life lived on the ragged edge of civilization.

He made his way back down to the bar, his intention evident. He walked up to the owner, a thin man with weary eyes and a frown permanently carved on his face.

"Food and water, if you please," the stranger rumbled, his voice a low growl that hardly cut above the noise.

The owner grunted, waving a hand towards a corner table. "Help yourself to the stew. Water is in the back. And one other thing," he said, his tone sharpening. "No weapons in the common rooms."

The stranger hesitated, his eyes unflinching. "I don't have any weapons."

As though in reply, another lightning bolt ripped through the sky, illuminating the room in an otherworldly blue light. The lights flickered wildly, as if they also would yield to the darkness. A deafening thunderclap responded, shaking the windows and making the building tremble. Every eye in the bar turned to the stranger.

Paying no heed to the attention, he took a plate heaped with stew and a big, chipped mug of water. He turned and made his way to a table in the corner of the bar, his movements slow and calculated.

Chapter 6: The Echoes of Uniformity

The stew was flavorless, the water tasted rusty, but the stranger ate with economical expertise. He hadn't eaten in days. As he ate, three young men, eerily alike, approached his table. They moved in a synchronized single unit, their features bland and unnoticeable.

"What do you want, stranger?" the first one asked, his voice a monotone drone.

The stranger didn't respond to him, merely continued eating.

"It's very rude to disregard us," the second said, his tone mirror of the first's.

"That can cause problems," the first contributed, the menace understated, veiled in politeness.

The stranger finally raised his head, his storm cloud-gray eyes scanned them with thinly veiled repugnance. He went back to eating, his silence an amplified rebuff.

"We noticed your bike outside," added the third, his voice as characterless as the others. "Do you want to sell it? My boss has plenty of money. We can pay a good price."

Again, the stranger did not answer. The questions continued, a steady stream of queries regarding his point of origin, his intended destination, and the reason for his travel. He disregarded all of them until he finished the final bite of stew.

Rising to his feet, the stranger spoke at last, his voice a low, vibrating growl. "I'm seeking friends. We rode together once but were parted." He broke off, his eyes flattening. "And the car is not for sale."

As he stood up, the young men finally seemed to grasp the magnitude of him. He towered over them, a clear seven feet tall. Although he seemed lean, his build exuded an aura of power that hinted at coiled strength, a predator waiting its moment to uncoil.

He came back to the bar, requesting the owner to give him one more cup of water. Next, he motioned to the dark areas in the room. "Where can I find information? I am searching for some friends."

A hulking brute of a man, a crudely augmented fellow with half his body a patchwork of metal and flesh, mechanics grafted onto his organic frame, stumbled up beside him. Wires ran across his flesh, and pieces of steel jutted out of his arms and legs.

"Stranger," the augmented man bellowed, his voice a distorted growl. "Seems you aren't very mannerly. My friends posed questions to you, and you made no reply."

The stranger shifted his attention to him, a slow, calculating appraisal. He searched the man's face and then, with a terrible realization, made the connections. The mangled metal, the empty eyes, the droning voice - all led to a single grisly fact.

"Clones," he thought, his voice an unspoken whisper in the tempest.

Chapter 7: Mictly's Awakening

The augmented man squared his chest, his mechanical heart humming noticeably. "I am the one who runs this town. Nothing occurs without my knowledge or permission."

The stranger returned the gaze. "I am only passing through, taking shelter from the storm." A lightning flash lit up the room, and a deafening crack of thunder was heard. "But I believe I have found what I was seeking."

The augmented man's eyes narrowed, and he examined the stranger with fresh intensity. A spark of recognition, followed by growing horror, contorted his face.

"It's you," he stuttered, his voice shaking. "It can't be. You're dead. Who are you?" He started to move backward, his augmented limbs scraping against the ground.

The stranger's voice was a low, ominous snarl. "I am Mictly, I am here to take you to hell to pay for what you and your friends did to my family."

The augmented man shrieked a piercing cry. "Stop him! Kill him!"

As a body - every clone, every altered face - turned. The dull hum of their voices dropped to a guttural snarl. They moved in an unsettling synchrony, puppets on a string controlled by one malignant will.

The stranger sprang backward, adrenaline pumping through him. "Foolish clones." he bellowed, "You will not be able to stop me!"

The clones attacked, a wave of identical features and twisted metal. He waded through them, his fists a blur of motion. He struck with efficient brutality, clones crashing across the room, their augmented bodies crashing into tables and sending bottles shattering. Blood spattered the walls, painting the bar in a grisly mosaic of violence.

Yet they continued to come, a never-ending wave of clones. The stranger fought with a savagery bred of rage and desperation, but the sheer numbers were daunting.

Abruptly, an ear-shattering fusillade of shots rang out from the rear of the room. A giant of a man, even bigger than the stranger, loomed in the doorway, two huge machine guns held in his hands. He opened fire, raking the clones that mobbed the stranger with bullets.

The lights dimmed and went out, leaving the bar in total darkness. The only light was that from the muzzle flashes of the guns. The night had really started.

Chapter 8: Screams and Silence

The shooting had stopped, and the air hung thick with strangling silence. A silence so thick like an object, an object against Elias's eardrums, his own thudding heart thudding in his ears. He moved through the darkness of the bar, his own personal charnel house filled with mangle remains of his clones.

He'd lost count. Twenty? Thirty? All his face, all so disposable to the man who'd let loose this hell.

Elias pressed on in the twisted landscape with grim resolve, his boots drying out the ground. He had to know for certain.

And only when he knew murder was done came a hand from under a pile of dead. It moved impossibly quick, impossibly steadily, impossibly wildly. No chance to change before the hand tore across his face, fingers into flesh, thumbs over eyes.

A howl like a wolf's burst from Elias' throat, a bellow of searing pain as if reflected in the coldness of heavy quiet. Then darkness.

The bitter flavor of his own blood in his face in his nostrils. Outside in the street, the initial heavy drops of the rain had just begun to fall.

Mictly staggered to the torn door of the saloon, the door a doorway for half-inflated street and soaked in night filth. And then he remembered being struck. At least twice. A burning ripping pain in his stomach. Breathing pained.

And as he staggered out into the street, the rain became a deluge. A flash of light, illuminating the desolated scene for a fleeting moment, and in that flash, a surge of agony roared through him. He dropped to his knees, his arms clasped about his chest, his hand deep in a jagged gash. The hot blood welled up, lubricating his palms and the dirty sidewalk.

A victorious, angry laugh echoed out into the night. "I've got you now, you son of a bitch. You killed my brothers, but now you're done. Finish!"

Mictly coughed once more, and his bloody lips. He patted his pocket and pulled out a folded photograph. A woman with soft eyes and soft smile smiled up at him. Three baby girls, snugly wrapped in her arms, smiled up at the camera. His family.

He leaned towards them and extended a trembling finger to touch their faces, his own face twisted into a ghastly grin. "I think it's time I got to see you again," he struggled through the cacophony of the rain. "I miss you so much."

His lips foamed with blood as he attempted to speak. "I did the best I could. I miss you so much."

The giant's shape emerged from the darkness, a silhouette of a giant into the neon light of the motel sign. The man laughed again, a laugh that stretched out oblivion.

Mictly's vision began to fade. His heart slowed, beating with each stroke like a bass drum in a tired beat. His mouth was cold with the metallic taste of blood.

And then, nothing. Blessed darkness.

Color?. Not antiseptic, sterile city color, but rich, warm color he had not seen in years.

Finally, I am by your side once more.

Then, a voice. One which was soft but urgent. "Not yet. You must find them. You have to save them."

A memory swept over him. Three baby girls, now grown women, laughing in a sunny garden, their laughter echoing off into the air.

The voice once more, insistent. "Save them."

Lightning stroke Mictly; followed by a thunderclap that exploded on the earth and brought him to consciousness.

The giant man walking slowly getting closer to him "Not even heavens forgive you"

The giant man stood above him, his great hand locked on his throat, crushing his windpipe, He was being lifted and choked.

"Another one down!" roared the man, his own voice jeering.

And a different sound. A sound that defied logic. A steady rhythmic thump. A heartbeat?

Adrenalin flooded Mictly, a wave of raw animal power. Dazzled by instinct, he hammered fists into the giant's face, thumbs buried in the fleshy areas around his eyes.

The giant screamed in pain, dropping him.

Mictly was standing upright, his own body offending. He punched the giant, fists full of pain and loss. His daughters' laughter, his wife's soothing arms, child's embrace clutched tight to him, turned in his head.

And then the horrendous pain of aches, screams, bleeding face on his wife, empty rooms. All lost in a moment.

He pounced on the giant, each blow, a testament to his shattered life.

And the giant fell at last, a shape in the gutter of the street.

Mictly stood over him, chest heaving and falling, rain rinsing blood from his face. There he stayed and let the rain rinse the blood from his face, his wounds healed as if nothing had happened. He ached, grieved, but that was forgotten like the wind. Scars did remain, deep, jagged reminders of the battles he'd fought, of the family that'd been destroyed.

He turned and walked away, leaving the behind carnage. The buildings around him starting to catch fire, an inferno engulfing the town, reflecting the anger in his soul.

Chapter 9: Omens and Ashes

Miles away, Marcus stared at the flickering news reports on his monitor. A small town, little larger than a blip on the map, was in flames. The camera panned over charred buildings, and nothing else.

"A fire in Dust Devil town," the newsreader spoke in a rehearsed sorrow, "A fire killed everyone in Dust Devil town, burning everything. The authorities are investigating but everything points to an accident."

Marcus growled. "Bad day for all of us," he grunted, still slumped over the screen.

He stepped out of his shop, his shop packed with clocks and worthless trinkets from an ancient past. The air was thick and hot, charged with an unnatural still ness. He looked up at the sky, a swirling mass of dark clouds gathering in the horizon. Under them, a motorcycle moving at high speed.

A storm was coming. A big one.