The sand that has collected on the cabin floor is tossed up with a jolt from the steel box. Millions of particles drift about the room like a swarm of tiny flies. Sand dyes the air a hue of lightish orange. It’s as thick as liquid. If I weren’t wearing a mask, I doubt I could even breathe.
As was policy, Ulric and I are wearing the appropriate breathing apparatus and are dressed in uniforms of metal and bright, red-and-gold cloth garments. We resemble knights prepared for battle more than men awaiting to sail.
Special fluid fills each and every garment we wear. It was all for cooling purposes. When the sea dried up, it left behind a basin. A basin of salt and sand that soaks in every bit of sunlight poured into it. Even in the safest conditions, the temperatures could be so high you’d die in a matter of hours, if not minutes.
The rumor always was the Sun could become so intense in this basin that the heat could melt even glass. From that generations-old belief, this place received its name: “The Kiln.” The Kiln is the basin that the Mediterranean left behind. It’s a bowl of salt, sand, and death.
We descend farther. With each moment we come closer to being level with the evening sun.
“How did you first feel when coming into the Kiln?” my brother asks in a stuttering voice, breaking a moment of relative silence.
I ponder for a second.
“In the military? No nerves. Just rushed right in,” I state in a boastful tone. “First day as a Captain? Fuck, now that was nerve-racking. Thought I’d crash the ship on the first departure. Talk about daunting…”
“Feels like I got a whirlpool in my stomach.”
“Look, it gets easier after a while. The sand will become your old friend, and after being out there it won’t seem so daunting anymore. I will admit, though, having a big enough gun helps.”
“Just not too big,” Ulric raises a finger.
“You’re still on about the Aegir Drop?” I groan, turning to my brother, taking in his entire display of silver armor. His helmet is a jagged and sharp thing encompassing his usually gaunt face. Wrapped around his body is a series of light-brown scarves. Draped over his shoulder is a dark violet cape.
“Why do you not want me to do it?” he insists in a whine, looking back at me with two orange visors shining bright in this dusty dark box.
“I already told you.” I abruptly spit, turning away from him, focusing my attention on the dust particles floating about.
“It’s a tool at our disposal… that’s all I’m saying.” Ulric insists in a calmer voice, a bid to level for me to change my mind. Yet I know I will not change my mind.
“Not all tools need to be used,” I say, raising my arms up. I begin pacing around what little space I can in here. “You get in a fight with an unarmed man, and you got a knife, sure you can use it, doesn’t mean you aren’t any less of a pussy.”
“They are Scavengers, why do you care how you kill them. Think they’ll judge you?” Ulric reasons, and to that I burst out in laughter.
“No,” I say through chuckles, “I just don’t want to judge myself. This is the Kiln, our domain. I shouldn’t have to rely on anyone else, but me.” I thump my rusted metal arm against my metallic armor. It gives off a satisfying clank with each beat.
Ulric turns away defeated, and we both face the empty wall. The sunlight continues its migration across the elevator as we go farther down the dam.
“Did Father ever have a chance to tell you the story about his time in the Italian Sands?” Ulric asks, breaking the slight lull in the conversation, “…when he was stationed there?”
I turn my head to face him. His identification number and name pop up on my display. A helmet in the Kiln is important for the days when the sun reflects off of the white salt, or when the desert kicks up a storm to ruin an afternoon.
“He’s told me, bits and pieces but no specifics…” I ponder, thinking back to the conversations I had with that stern man in my childhood. “Why? Did he tell you?”
“He told me before I went off to college.” Ulric contemplates, preparing to dive deep into a story. “He talked about how his division was sent in to clear out squatters that occupied that abandoned city, Rome. Nobody knew why they chose to stay there… nothing but desert, you know. Sand dunes covered everywhere except this temple.”
The elevator, after a few minutes of creeping, has finally leveled with the tops of the ships. I can make out the golden flag of the Reich flowing high atop one vessel.
“The squatters were starving in that temple. Dad said they didn’t look like us. They had dark hair. Foreign features. They weren’t dark like the Raiders, but not fair-skinned like Aryans. He figured they were the last remnants of the Romans.”
The engines from the ships permeate the elevator cabin, throwing more sand into the air as the deep bassoon of a tremor ripples out. Ulric seems to be lost in thought.
“They were too stubborn to leave when their homeland dried up but had managed to keep fish alive, in these pools of water,” he continues, his voice trailing.
The bustling docks come into full view as the elevator slows to a crawl.
“At least the fish had once been alive. See, they had so many people, they needed a lot of fish to feed everyone. It was the last water reserve they had, so space was limited. Well, it was too limited. Most of the fish had drowned.”
“What?” I chuckle. “How does a fish drown in water?”
“Well, they need oxygen and there is only so much oxygen in water. If there are too many fish breathing that oxygen, then they can’t breathe and suffocate,” Ulric answers. “These Romans had too many people, not enough space, and couldn’t keep the fish alive. So they starved.”
“They don’t seem like they were the smartest people,” I scoff. “They should have left,” I continue, wagging a finger.
“Yes they should have. But they were stubborn,” Ulric concludes in that matter-of-fact, scholarly voice.
An armored Ulric, donned in a violet cloth, turns himself toward me as the elevator doors open, releasing a taste of the scalding heat, much like an oven. Even through my protective layer, the heat is still a presence.
“No matter how natural it is for a fish to be in water, there is always the possibility that it can drown,” my brother concludes to me, his voice calm and full of purpose.
“That’s a good story,” I say to him, feeling the rippling heat of the Kiln scraping against my metal, “but this desert is big enough for all of us to breathe.”
The cracked stone surface of the Docks is so thick with sand that each step we take leaves imprints from our metal boots. Everything down here—the elevator, the docks, and the ships—all appear to be dyed with the same orange powder. Sand was just something non-negotiable down here. Winds carried the stuff every day, and it made cleaning anything a pretty pointless endeavor.
As we make our way down an orchestra of machinery, men, and cargo, I explain the sights to a bewildered Ulric. The dam, commonly just called the Marian Dam, towers over the entire display. Trains and carts speed across platforms constructed on its solid concrete face, stretching so long that it curves into the horizon.
For as impressive as the Marian Dam is, it is nothing compared to the biggest: the dam that keeps the entire Atlantic Ocean at bay. The pair of us stroll across the dock, leaping out of the way as cranes lift rusting containers and swing them far above like an acrobat.
Yet these cranes were tiny when compared to the hulking mechanical beasts to our left. Officially these machines with bows, sterns, and everything in between are simply called “ships.” They are shaped like ships and they sail the desert like a ship would sail the sea.