Washed

Six Months Earlier…

The rocks were warm. The sky wasn’t black—it was purple, bruised, flickering. I could smell ozone. I could feel it in my molars.

I didn’t know which way was downhill. I just ran.

Behind me, the desert cracked open. I heard the water before I saw it—angry, fast, impossible. Rain doesn’t fall in sheets here. It **punches**. Hits the ground like it’s been holding a grudge.

A flashbulb burst somewhere behind my eyes. Then again—closer. A scream followed. A bird again? No—it was too low. Too thick. It echoed off the canyons like someone replayed the moment on loop.

Gutted, I thought. The sound felt gutted. Like something inside-out.

I dove into a narrow gap between two boulders. Lightning gave me one clear frame: a dead tree. A camera. Not mine. A message scratched into stone beside it—“STAY FOR THE SECOND WAVE.”

The first one hit ten seconds later.

I gripped the ground and tasted metal. Water shoved past, took the camera with it. The sound it made going over the edge wasn’t a splash. It was a snap.

When it cleared, I crawled forward. The ground steamed. Thunder retreated like something embarrassed by how loud it had been.

I stood up too fast and the world leaned sideways. My hands shook. I checked my pockets. I had no pockets.

Something moved under the tree. It wasn’t a person. Not quite. But it stood like one.

Then the scream again—closer. Sharp. Aiming for me.

I ran until the ground stopped. Sand became asphalt. A road curved around nothing. A sign that read “RETURN ROUTE.”

I blinked.

Gone.

And I was cold. Again.