Red Sky

26 Hours to Thunderbolts (8 a.m. Mountain time)

Shelter in Place

The red dust wasn’t falling—it was sifting.
Straight down, as if gravity itself had thickened.

Bryce Mitchell, sixteen, the oldest, sealed the last strip of tape across the kitchen window. The plastic snapped tight with a dry pop. Outside, the light glowed the color of rust, and the air hung heavy with something that shouldn’t be there. The world looked rubbed raw, like it was shedding its skin.

“No clouds, no wind,” Dad said quietly. He watched the eerie descent. “I’ve seen dust storms before, even cosmic dust. This… this isn’t right.”

He nodded at the sealed window. “That’s good. David said this stuff is fine enough to slip through the tiniest gaps if the pressure changes. The plastic gives us one more layer.”

He turned to the sliding glass door. “Jason, you’re leaving gaps.”

Nine-year-old Jason wrestled a mangled strip of duct tape. Smart with computers. Useless with tape.

“I’m trying, Dad,” he muttered. “It keeps sticking.”

Jason frowned, mumbled a little. “We already have double-pane windows.”

“This isn’t about drafts, buddy.” Dad softened his voice. “The dust is different. It’s not supposed to be in the air at all.”

“You’re doing great,” Bryce said, kneeling to help. He peeled off a clean strip and guided Jason’s hands.
“Just like this.”

Jason smoothed the tape until it stuck. “That’s cool, Bryce. Thanks.”

Behind them, the TV blared. A reporter rattled off warnings: water contamination in Seattle, red dust storms reaching Denver.

Bryce didn’t want to hear more. The air already felt electric—like the sky was holding its breath.

Upstairs, Mom and Abby were finishing the windows and helping Grandpa gather supplies for the cave.

Abby, seven, had insisted on helping. She’d stayed home sick, sniffling, watching the sky like it was waiting to pounce.

Dad checked the front door. “Dust has stopped for now. Let’s hope it stays that way.”

It didn’t.

Their home was better prepared than most. Tucked against a granite cliff near the mouth of Little Cottonwood Canyon, it had a finished basement that extended deep into the rock—part cave, part reinforced shelter. Dad’s pet project.

They had enough supplies for a year.

Bryce had helped stack shelves: food, water barrels, propane tanks in steel cabinets, medical kits, radios, two locked gun safes.

Dad had even tested the HEPA-grade filtration system monthly. At the time, Bryce rolled his eyes. Now, he was grateful.

This wasn’t just dust. It was caustic—engine-clogging, asthma-triggering, leaving a film on everything.
But inside, the air stayed clear and dry.

The power flickered.

Dad bolted to the garage. The compact propane generator kicked in with a hum. He’d wired it himself through a hidden switch panel. The solar panels had failed earlier that morning, choked by dust. The generator gave them a few more days—weeks, if rationed.

The internet still worked. Barely. Their fiber line ran underground. Dad had insisted on a separate UPS.
Even so, the network blinked in and out as the house’s circuits surged.

Bryce returned to the kitchen and sat beside Dad. They both stared at the plastic-sealed window, listening to the silence.

A faint rattle—like pebbles on glass—rose, then faded.

“Do you think it’ll get worse?” Bryce asked.

Another scatter of pebbles tapped the house.

Dad didn’t answer right away. He ran a hand through graying hair, eyes flicking toward the silent radio.

“I think your Uncle David knew this was coming.”

Bryce blinked. “What?”

“He said something a few months ago. Anomalies in the upper atmosphere. Charged particles. Dust signatures. I thought he was being dramatic. Said it might be a comet… or something bigger. Then he dropped it. Said the agency told him to keep quiet.”

“And he did?”

“Yeah.” Dad’s voice tightened. “That’s what eats at me. He knew. But he kept quiet. Until today. Said to get underground. Fast.”

Bryce stared at the window. “Do you think we’ll be okay?”

Dad leaned back in his chair. The battery lantern cast soft light across his face, making him look older.

“We’re better off than most. We planned for earthquakes. For fallout. I never expected red dust and falling rocks. But the house’ll hold. And we’ve got each other.”

Bryce nodded. He didn’t feel brave. But Dad’s voice anchored him.

Outside, the red dust turned to pebbles—pelting the house like the first shot of a war no one understood.

________________________________________
The storm that begins in this chapter escalates quickly in “Red Dust.”
________________________________________