Tim Lebbon - Fears Unnamed Read Online Free PDF Page A

in the wind, and it took several long seconds to pass over the tent’s domed roof, finally being sucked away into the storm with a whiplike crack.
    “What the hell was that?” I shouted.
    “One of the other tents, I guess.”
    “I thought you said they were meant to bend, could withstand this?”
    “We weren’t in that one.” His comment made no sense. I guessed I had misheard.
    We attempted some more shouted conversation, but two out of every three words were stolen by the storm. I imagined these lost thoughts blown together, mixed and matched into things neither of us had ever meant to say. Scott’s tent seemed to be withstanding the battering, its poles bending and twisting just as he’d said they were designed to, though I never once felt safe. As far as I was concerned we were forever on the verge of doom. The tent would be whipped away into the gray storm and we would be left bare, exposed, tumbling across the desert in a cloud of rugs and cushions and clothes, sand scoring our skin until the flesh showed through, blinded, deafened, eventually buried wherever the storm chose to dump us.
    Scott never looked anything less than amazed. His excitement did not flicker. He continued drinking, and to my surprise so did I, still able to enjoy the beer even in such desperate circumstances. Part of it was the lulling effect of the alcohol, but perhaps I was also taking on some of Scott’s awe through our companionable silence.
    The lightning flashes continued, shimmering across the tent’s outer walls and casting strange shadows, swirling, dancing dust devils celebrating the wind. The thunder came almost immediately. It was a long time before the period between lightning and thunder began to grow again. I imagined the storm waiting above our tent, examining us, interested in these petty humans who had decided to pitch against its power.
    Still the sands scoured the tent, driven by the horrendous gales. I shouted at Scott several times to ask whether the canvas could withstand such a battering, but he did not answer. He knew I was asking something, but he merely smiled, eyes sparkling, bringing the bottle to his lips once more. He existed in his own little space.
    There was no point in trying to sleep. I checked my watch regularly, but day and night had become confused, and when the time began to make no sense I stopped checking. Perhaps night fell, because the dark storm became that much darker, but lightning gave us brief moments of illumination here and there. Scott lit some electric lanterns around the tent, solar batteries charged during the day to keep the day with us through the long, dark desert nights. And it grew perceptibly cooler. I opened my luggage and rummaged around for a shirt and a pair of combat trousers, standing to change with my head only inches from the convex canvas ceiling. For some reason it seemed so much louder than when I was sitting down.
    Eventually, after hours that felt like days, the storm began to abate. We only realized how much it had lessened when we found that we could converse comfortably by raising our voices only slightly.
    “How long do these usually last?” I asked.
    Scott shrugged. “As I said, never seen one like this before. But I think that was short.”
    I looked at my watch, but still it made no sense.
    “Hours,” he said. “Maybe six.” He glanced at the empty beer bottles strewn around the floor of his tent. “Maybe more.”
    I suddenly realized how much I needed to urinate. I looked around the tent, but there was no sign of a bucket or a partitioned toilet area.
    “Two tents along,” Scott said. “If it’s still there.” He pointed the way without standing. He suddenly looked very drunk, even though minutes before he had been alert and observant.
    I stared at him. I was scared, terrified of the desert and the prospect of leaving the tent on my own, but I could not articulate that idea.
    He knew. “Come on,” he said, standing and swaying slowly toward