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Jon Saw it coming. He was not the only one: the beings known as Erika who claimed to be angels but could not be angels because it was illegal to acknowledge the existence of angels (which annoyed Jon, since he Knew they were angels, but he also Knew what could happen if he acknowledged them too much) also saw the impending disaster, and they warned Ms. Old Woman Josie about it. But he Saw the sandstorm’s malicious intent, and so he warned Carlos, who in turn warned Cecil (“I’m just going to call him so he can get the news out-”), who warned the rest of the town.
That being said, when the sandstorm arrived, Jon stood alone. For all that the Beholding could Show him, the marks of the sandstorm hid its full power from his view: the sandstorm, a product of the Stranger, the Distortion and the Slaughter, was never going to be something mundane. This arrival of more Fear Gods would test the city’s resolve, and for who came out on top… well, that would be prophetic vision- and prophecy was not a power Jon, or his patron, held.
So, keeping his ear out for Cecil’s updates on the situation, Jon sat down and waited for the sandstorm to arrive. His curiosity would not allow him to go inside, where it was safe- and even if, for a fleeting moment, something overcame that defining curiosity of his, by now it would be too late. The sandstorm moved fast, pushed onward by high winds- but it did not carry any debris, as that was not its nature.
Not for Night Vale, at least.
When the storm finally reached him and its barely-felt particles pelted his skin, Jon took one breath in, held it, then one breath out. He took another breath in, held it, then let that breath back out. As he inhaled his third breath, he saw it: the shambling beast that called itself ‘Jon’. A double of himself who, in another world and time, might have been a companion, a friend, a brother.
But in this world and time, their shared, deep breaths sparked within them, and the sandstorm’s entities took hold, digging their domains- their madness, their paranoia, their bloodthirst- into their minds. In another world and time, Jon’s connection to the Beholding- both of their connections to the Beholding- may have been enough to keep out any others.
In this world and time, it could not.
Fury hotter than the desert in day scorched their veins, cactus spikes forming in their throats as they let out twin, inhuman growls that warned off potential threats- but the growls deflected off each other, bouncing off into the obscured city and rendering themselves entirely pointless, for this confrontation was not something that could be delayed or stopped. The sand, though still entirely unfelt on the rest of their bodies, burned itself into their eyes, leaving them with nothing to see or See and with one singular goal in their matching minds: Kill.
The winds whipped and howled as the two growled, trading blows with each other. Both were inexperienced as fighters, having been enrolled in the Night Vale school district for less than a year and thus without the training from physical education class that all other kids his age got. This inexperience was irrelevant, as the savagery rushing through the veins of them and everyone else exposed to the sandstorm was not that of a trained fighter but rather that of a feral animal, with elbows and teeth and claws lashing out wildly with no rhyme or reason.
Granted, schools in Night Vale encouraged that sort of behavior in fights, citing “It’s not like anyone here’s gonna fight fair, so you shouldn’t either!”, but the longer you spent practicing in class, the better you became at it, and the more techniques you considered when your life was on the line. Jon, with few fights and little practice, did not immediately consider which parts of him could be used as weapons until he slammed his head into his double’s (sending them both reeling) or he used his fingernail to jab his double’s eye.
The Slaughter, as refined as it may appear in movies depicting violence and war, was not a graceful entity. When the Slaughter became involved in something (truly became involved, not just brushing something with a faint mark) people lost their minds, tactics and dignity. All thoughts of proper form and honor was ripped away, like a fish being grabbed from the water by a falcon, and became replaced by the primal urge to attack, to slash, to leave the Earth stained red with the blood of enemies, family, acquaintances, friends, strangers.
When under the influence of the Slaughter, you fight to injure and to hurt. You do not care about collateral damage- even when that damage is to yourself.
So when the winds subsided and the sun swept away the pains, one Jon stood above the other Jon, bloodied with the gore of the dead Jon and with the blood from his own wounds. There is no way to tell which one was the original Jon, or what the survival of duplicates could mean for the ‘originals’ still blessed with life; a parting gift from the Stranger, whose presence lingered over the city.
Jon- either the original or the duplicate, not even the Beholding Knew- breathed in. He held his breath for a moment, before he let it go back into the air. His eyes- placed across the city streets and in the school and radio station and houses and on his body- opened, and he Saw the carnage.
Bodies laid across the streets, sidewalks and alleyways, their blood seeping from their bodies and pooling around them in puddles, sinking through the sand or dripping down storm drains. Entrails and organs were already being harvested by strange figures and not-so-strange figures, each taking the opportunity for a meal or a free organ donation. Bodies that were not already cut open were being pierced into for trophies or materials that could be given a new use, such as bones or hair.
In some places, he could taste the Stranger in people’s minds. People sitting beside their dead doppelganger, staring at the corpse and wondering if that had been the real ‘them’ and whether they were an impostor now wearing the face and memories of the original. Those who the Spiral influenced found themselves with newly-clear minds and confusion at how there was only one duplicate-corpse and not the dozen or so they thought they saw. Everyone who had not made it inside in time, or whose buildings were unable to handle the harsh weather, found themselves with bruises and cuts that they would carry for weeks.
I’m going to be fed for a while, Jon (or Not-Jon) realized, slightly giddy at the thought. With one last look at Not-Jon’s (Jon’s?) unmoving body, Jon (or Not-Jon) walked away, the blood squishing under his shoes as he walked. …I need new shoes…