Chapter Text
The afternoon sun beat down on the cracked desert earth, casting long shadows across the broken landscape. The chalky brown sediment looked less like earth and more akin to a clay pot whose paint had long since started to flake, tucked away in a corner of the world nature had long since forgotten. Here and there, lone cacti stood resilient in the heat, daring the sun to render the land truly uninhabitable, while lizards scurried from shadow to shadow, bracing against the furnace.
That’s exactly how Wiley liked it.
He sat hunched in the driver’s seat of his beat-up old van, bouncing uncomfortably on shocks long since worn out. His left front tire let out a rather unpleasant ca-chunk as he drove it through a pothole, and he winced as the van jerked under him. He gritted his teeth, pulling the van into the wrong lane to avoid a particularly bad patch of neglected dirt road. It’s not like he had to worry about oncoming traffic: no one drove out this far. Why would they? There was nothing out here. Nothing except Wiley, that was. Wiley and the storms.
Bwoop! Bwoop!
Shit.
Nothing except Wiley, the storms, and the odd ranger.
Grinding his teeth, Wiley took his time guiding the van to what could be considered the shoulder, if you squinted. Behind him, a battered old cop car pulled up, looking nearly as bad as his van. Wiley’s eyes darted through the cabin, taking stock of what he had on hand. Beside him in the passenger seat sat a rumpled canvas bag, filled to the brim with various handheld appliances, glinting with new parts and fresh polish. Nothing that would get him in trou- oh, wait, he’d repaired a pistol as well. Shit.
Wiley lurched forward and stuffed the pistol deeper in the bag just as there came a rap at his window. Heaving a sigh, he cranked the window down, fixing the ranger with what he hoped was an even expression.
“License and registration, sir. And you can wipe that look off your face while you’re at it.”
Bushy eyebrows pulled together as Wiley gave up all pretense of pleasantry, reaching into his glove compartment. So much for his quick, hassle-free trip into town.
He handed his ID and papers to the ranger, who’d stepped back and was surveying the van. A low whistle blew through his lips as he held up Wiley’s ID, his eyes flitting between it, Wiley, and the vehicle.
“Well, I’ll be damned. It really is Mr. William Coyote himself.”
Wiley didn’t say anything.
The ranger shook his head, the amazement building behind a toothy grin.
“In the flesh!”
Silence.
“You know, I’d always wondered if I’d actually run into you. I just transferred here from Arizona, and all the other rangers at the outpost swore up and down you were real.”
Silence.
“They said ‘be on the lookout for a hermit driving a storm chasin’ van out in the middle of the Albuquerque desert.’ I thought they were just fuckin’ with me—wanted to see if I’d be on the lookout for el chupacabra next—but here you are.”
Silence.
“You really live up in those caves? Hey, is it true that yo–”
/Is there a problem?/
The ranger blinked, mouth still hanging open mid-speech, seemingly yanked from his own little world without a parachute. He stared at Wiley’s fingers, trying to gather himself. Clearly, they didn’t teach sign language at whatever podunk academy the ranger had barely squeaked out of.
“I, uh… I don’t…”
Wiley grimaced, pointing one soot-covered finger at the road, then at himself, then at the road again, fixing the ranger with a pointed look.
For what felt like an eternity, the ranger’s expression didn’t change, all two gears stuttering to chug along behind his eyes. But at last, something must have clicked, because he let out a stiff “Ah,” before straightening, frowning, and clearing his throat. “Well, uh- yeah, no, actually. No, you are not free to go. Are you aware that your left taillight is out?”
Wiley continued to glare at the ranger, hoping that if he stayed quiet long enough, kept his hands firmly on the wheel, the ranger would take the hint and be on his way.
The ranger did not take the hint.
“Hello? I asked you a question. Are you aware that your taillight is out?”
The ranger had raised his voice, as if Wiley’s hearing were the issue. Wiley took a deep breath through his nose, held it for a second, then gave a curt nod.
Leave leave leave lea-
“Well, I’m gonna have to cite you for it. You can pay online or over the phon-” the ranger’s pen stuttered to a brief stop, as if hearing his own words, and he added with an odd mixture of sheepishness and disdain, “or go down to the station and pay in person, if you don’t have those things… Internet…” He marched up to the open window, pride successfully restored, ego sufficiently stroked, as Wiley leaned back in his seat at the ranger’s approach, eyes fixed straight ahead through the cracked windshield as he plucked the citation from the ranger’s hand.
“I expect you to take that clunker to the nearest auto shop and fix that taillight immediately.” The ranger called as he headed back to his car, disappearing from view.
Wiley waited a few minutes until the ranger had pulled back onto the road in the direction of town. Once he became little more than a dust cloud, Wiley put the van in drive and rolled slowly back off the shoulder. He glanced down at the paper still in his hand and sneered before crumpling it up one-handed and tossing it out the still open window. What were they going to do? Sue him? He didn’t have an address. He didn’t have a phone. He barely had enough money to cover this month’s necessities. Hopefully that’ll change after today’s drop, he thought, eyes flitting to the canvas bag.
He tallied the numbers again, as if he’d catch a missing remainder on the fifth try, but nope: same total, give or take a couple dollars. He’d repaired ten appliances this month, four of which were pretty pricey on their own. Even with his lower rates, that’d probably be enough to cover another couple gallons of gas, at least 6 packets of vegetable seeds, and some more building materials. He nodded to himself, satisfied. The van continued to shudder under him as bugs pelted the windshield. Maybe he could even pick up some art supplies while he was in town. A bead of sweat rolled down his neck, washing away a thin streak of dirt, soot, and oil, but he didn’t dare turn on the AC lest he want a lungful of desert dust.
The cactus shadows had grown a couple inches by the time he reached the outskirts of Albuquerque. The storm chasing van shuddered to a halt in its usual spot just outside the old-timey general store. He stepped out of the vehicle, pausing to stretch, his bones crackling uncomfortably just beneath his skin. Even with his terrible posture, his lean frame still loomed over the few other customers scurrying past on their way to their cars, trying not to make it obvious they’d been staring. Wiley didn’t care; he was used to it at this point. Everyone liked to bring up the “mute, mad scientist storm chaser hermit” when trying to out tall-tale town visitors, but actually having to interact with him? Exchange niceties with the local cryptid? Some people are more entertaining as stories.
Wiley slammed the door shut. He’d have to make this quick… not because he was on a particular timetable; he just didn’t like peo-
“Wiley! Hey bu-buddy!”
Wiley flinched, turning to the general store’s propped open front door. Just inside, behind the counter, sat a portly young man, round face fit with a cheery smile. The man waved, the movement jostling his name tag, which glinted under the store’s weak overhead lighting. “Paul Blanc,” the worn lettering read. /Hey Porky/ Wiley signed. A cruel nickname to anyone else, perhaps, but Porky seemed to wear it with pride, and Wiley wasn’t about to debate the ethics of reclaiming less than flattering names with him.
Porky was almost the exact opposite of Wiley in both mannerisms and appearance. Whereas Porky was short, round, fair, bald, and all smiles, Wiley was tall, dark, thin as a rake, covered in hair, and devoid of pleasantries. Part of him still wondered when Porky was going to decide he’d had enough of Wiley and demand he take his business elsewhere, but five years in, and for some reason, the store owner seemed as pleased as ever to see him.
He chose not to dwell on it.
Wiley let slip a stiff, yet not altogether forced grin, and headed inside, canvas bag in hand. He had to duck a bit, wisps of dark brown, almost black hair ruffling against the top of the doorframe.
Wiley emptied his bag on the counter, pushing the appliances carefully to Porky. Porky took them, smile unwavering, and pushed the pile to one side. “I’ll let everyone know their st-st-stuff is ready! In the meanti-time, we had these come in for you…” Porky pulled a large, worn cardboard box out from under the counter and set it between them with a grunt. Wiley reached inside, inspecting each object in turn. An alarm clock, a key fob, a hairdryer, a microwave, a couple AC units, a KitchenAid… that last one would fetch him a pretty penny. Frowning, he pulled a smartphone out of the box and shook his head, handing it back to Porky, who had already let out a chuckle and was shaking his head, hand outstretched. “I know! I kno-ow! I t-t-told her you did-did-didn-n’t do smart te-te- that you only did analog, but she insiste-te-ted I ask!” Wiley nodded, pulling the rest of the box toward him. He peered inside, and sure enough, tucked away in the corner was a wad of bills, neatly rolled and crisp in Porky’s signature style.
He left the box there, making his way around the store, plucking various machine parts and food supplies from the shelves while Porky chattered away behind him. He’s lucky we’re in business together, Wiley thought, making sure his back was turned before rolling his eyes as Porky went on some tangent about someone’s daughter chasing after someone’s son, much to the scandal of someone else’s family. …And he’s lucky he’s so likeable, he begrudged, though he’d never admit it to Porky’s face. “Wh-wh-what-t about you, Wiley? You ever goi-goi-going to run-n off with someone?” Wiley’s tired eyes met Porky’s mischievous ones, and Porky chortled. “Right, right: you’re married t-t-to the storm.” Porky’s smile faltered as he held Wiley’s gaze, taking on a more serious tone. “But seriously, Wiley: reports say the st-st-storm t-t-t-tonight’s going to be a b-b-big one. Don’t go pushing yourself i-i-i-if you don’t have t-t-to.”
Wiley’s look softened, and he gave an almost imperceptible nod before turning back to the shelves. A minute later, he’d gathered all the supplies he needed and paid, meeting Porky’s cheerful goodbye and “take care!” with a solemn nod. Luckily, he still had about $40 left over after his supply run—even after grabbing a fresh bundle of artists’ pencils and sculpting clay—which he could put towards bigger, more costly repairs for his van. Till then, his temporary repairs would have to do. In a flash, he was back on the road, back for the desert, his cave, and the elements.
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It was dark by the time Wiley reached his cave. Like the true engineer he was, he’d outfitted it to meet all the amenities a person could need. Well, all the amenities he needed. He wasn’t quite sure what most people kept in their houses, if he was being honest. Whatever. He was sure it was the kind of home many people would be jealous of, if he did say so himself (and he did).
A kitchen was situated against the right wall, but the rest of the walls were lined with thick metal garage shelves, most piled high with tools and building materials. A couple shelves in the back of the cave held stacks and stacks of books (mostly civil engineering manuals), with a lone bookcase peeking out from the back brimming with his art supplies. Tucked away between the far shelves lay his bed: a simple queen mattress laden with thick blankets planted on a sturdy wooden frame that he’d built himself. Well, that last part was redundant. He’d built all of this himself.
As Wiley looked at his bed, a gust of chill desert air swatted at his back and he shivered, briefly considering crawling under the blankets for an early night. Instead, he put his purchases away and spent the next few hours loading up the van and making minor repairs, getting it ready. Around 2am, the radio next to his bed suddenly crackled to life.
“And make sure to stay inside tonight! There are category 4 winds whipping through the desert just 20 miles west of the Albuquerque city limits! Whatever you do, do not go into the desert; stay home! That’s all, folks!”
Wiley’s face split into a toothy grin. In a moment, he was up from where he’d been crouched next to the driver’s side front tire, grabbing the ladder attached to the side of the van and hauling himself onto the roof, gripping the canyon wall to steady himself. He closed his eyes and took a deep inhale, letting the desert night air tingle through his veins. Wiley opened his dark eyes, glittering with excitement and moonlight, and there it was, as big and beautiful as ever. A massive funnel of wind, tearing across the planes.
Go time.
Wiley leapt from the roof, scrabbling to catch his feet as he clawed at the door. He threw himself into the driver’s seat. With a cough and a sputter, the van was alive, tearing across the desert in the direction of the tornado.
Come on, come on!
Dust filled his sinuses, and the headlights barely made a dent in the inky pitch, but Wiley didn’t care. The moonlight would have to be enough, and he could cough up the dust later. He had a tornado to catch.
The tornado suddenly changed direction, and Wiley jerked the wheel to the right, tires sliding clear across gravel, but still gaining momentum.
3 miles.
Hair whipped around his face; his knuckles grew white around the steering wheel; beads of sweat rolled down his back. Faster, faster! His heart thrummed in his chest, bathing his body in a warm glow. The air felt electric. Hail began to pelt his windshield. His eyes widened. The reports were right. This was no ordinary tornado. Wiley slammed a palm into the dashboard, beaming with excitement. Blood roared in his ears.
600 yards.
Closer, closer the van came. Its shuddering grew more violent, as if shaking in protest, but Wiley slammed his foot on the gas pedal till it was flush with the floorboards. The landscape flew past him in a haze of dust and debris.
He was gaining on it. The tornado was getting clearer before his eyes.
300 yards.
He knew he was too close. He knew all he had to do was let up the gas a little, but something felt different. He felt alight with fire, as if he were standing on an open wire. His body vibrated as he beheld the beast before him. The moonlight cast the whole thing in brilliant white, a mixture of shadow and light chasing each other around and around in tight circles. Somewhere in the back of Wiley’s mind where his rational brain sat tucked away, waiting its turn until they were back at the cave, he estimated that the tornado had to be roughly 60 yards wide; maybe 1,600 yards tall.
Crack!
A snap of lightning split the sky and Wiley sucked in a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Shit. Wiley had overcorrected. He had been following the tornado at a steady clip, holding the winds at arm’s length just to his right. But now, the tornado was suddenly changing direction again: it was cutting left, directly in front of the van.
Too close. I’m too close. I need- Shit, I have to-
Suddenly, his swirling thoughts froze, as if struck by lightning themselves. Time screeched to a stop. The golf ball-sized hail seemed to hover midair, as did the deluge. Individual droplets of rain seemed to float in place, sparkling in the moon’s light. For Wiley was no longer fixated on the rain, or the hail, or the dust, or even the tornado.
No. Instead, Wiley stared slack-jawed at something else. Someone else. There, in the eye of the tornado, stood a man.
Wiley dared not blink. He was hallucinating; he was sure of it. If he blinked, the hallucination would disappear. But Wiley blinked, and still, there stood the man. He was tall, with long, dark hair pulled into a loose bun at the nape of his neck, framing a slender face. Atop his head, he wore a simple headband, two bright blue feathers standing at attention in the back. They danced gently in a breeze that did not match his surroundings, as if the man were enjoying a nice autumn afternoon and not embroiled in hurricane-level winds. Around him, also flapping gently in a non-existent autumnal breeze, draped a bright blue sarape, adorned with brown markings Wiley couldn’t quite make out. And the man was running. Running in the hurricane.
No, not in: with.
In his stupor, Wiley’s body had unclenched, his foot inadvertently easing off the gas. Moments later, the tornado passed directly in front of him, shaking the ground, rattling the van’s metal frame. But Wiley didn’t even notice. His eyes were still fixed on the stranger, who ran in the heart of the tornado. A second ticked by. Then another. Then another. The tornado moved in slow motion, as did the stranger. And then, his face turned. Dark brown eyes locked onto hazel, and what little thoughts still flitted about Wiley’s mind vaporized in an instant.
Those eyes.
That face.
The only functioning organ left in Wiley’s body slammed itself into his ribcage, again, and again, and again.
The stranger smiled.
And then, he was gone. Time sped up, and the tornado, the hail, the rain, and the lightning thundered past at breakneck speed. And then just as quickly as it was there, it was gone. Dissolved into the night sky.
Wiley slammed his foot on the brakes, nearly ramming his forehead into the steering wheel. Then, silence. The desert was eerily quiet. The moon shone down on a lone brown van, and the man inside who quivered in his seat, drowning under the booming silence and the thundering of his own heartbeat.
What the hell was that?