The winds came that night, menacing and violent, whipping the sands around in a deadly grit that invaded the nostrils and clogged the lungs. Their protection was meager, and Sheppard had his doubts about it lasting. It turned out there were several shelters, which were nothing more than covered trenches. Sheppard afforded himself the occasional glance outside, noticing the odd, orange color; apparently the moon had risen above the meager cloud cover and was trying to shine through the swirling dust. The moon, rather than being silver, was blood red, the sky echoing the pained conditions of the land; parched, dry, and brutal. There was no real sky, no real air other than what they breathed behind their face cloths. The planet had simply risen up and howled to the heavens.

Sheppard glanced at Rodney. The man looked scared, but not an "god I'm gonna die" kind of scared. More a being in a tiny place full of people scared. He was trying his hardest to pull every joint in his body towards his ribcage, rather like a curled Roly-poly. His right hand held the cloth to his nose, the fingers of his left hand tapped impatiently on his knee. He wasn't looking around, instead he rocked back and forth, every so slightly, his eyes fixed to a spot on the ground before him. His mind had wandered to a safe place, probably where those damn conductors were, and Sheppard had no problem with that.

He wished his mind would do something similar.

The noise reminded him of the hurricanes he had to endure as a child. That constant, unnatural wailing of wind that went on for hours without letting up still haunted his dreams. It wasn't that he was afraid of storms, in fact meteorology had been a hobby of his for a while, not enough to get really serious, but enough to track the big storms that came through and withhold some basic knowledge. He knew about hurricanes, how they formed, all that . . . but it was the sound that stayed with him. Like a beast in eternal pain, or giving a changeless, baleful sigh.

And it kept on, and on, and on . . .

The storm that had hit Atlantis had been bad on so many levels. First, it was the wind. Just as constant, though not as loud, simply because there wasn't as much for it to blow by. Then it was the waves, the way they rose to levels that made him lurch just to think about, and he just knew the city would fall, pulled under by a giant, watery claw. And of course there was Koyla and his freakish antics, and how he nearly succeeded in taking over the city. And hurt Rodney. And nearly escaped with Elizabeth as a prisoner. And every time the wind kicked up in his face, he remembered being on the balcony, screaming over the raging noise into his radio, begging for Elizabeth's life, knowing Rodney would be next to die, and cursing the storm for once again being a hindrance instead of a help.

Yeah, he didn't care for the wind too much.

Sheppard held his cloth to his nose and carefully stepped past the people crammed into the long trench like sardines. There was just enough room to move around, but it wasn't advisable.

Rodney didn't look up. Heavy lids had closed over his blue eyes, and he was now rock steady. Sheppard figured he was in that place where only Rodney's mind was capable of taking him, and left him to it. Instead he squeezed in beside him, sitting shoulder to shoulder, and forced himself to relax. And if Rodney happened to inch just the tiniest bit closer to him, well, surely he imagined it.

The problem with unpredictable storms is the whole unpredictability thing. Sheppard knew Brouk had said the rains was coming sooner than he thought. He had assumed there would be plenty of time between the sand storm and the rains. So when the first crack of thunder sounded overhead and unleashed a surge or water that poured though the tunnels and washed the people into him, to say he was surprised was an understatement.

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Rodney couldn't breathe. He could reach out and feel almost everything, because everything was sliding past him. Cloth, hands, feet, legs, muddy globs of sand, all hit his hands and battered his body, sliding sideways with him. It was very like drowning in a mudslide. He couldn't even swim, everything was too thick. Flailing about was pretty useless. Hell, the whole situation was useless. He could hear the screams, and yet he knew he wasn't hearing screams because his ears were clogged with muck, just like his nostrils. He knew he was screaming in his mind and it was pure instinct that kept him from opening his mouth. But he couldn't breathe, and that scared him the most. His chest was already crying out in panic for oxygen, and he was certain it had a voice as well, and the voice was his, yelling that he didn't want to die on a godforsaken wasteland. Then he realized he was allowing too many thoughts to go through his head, meaning he had been under way too long. Calculations started to run through his head, and he surprised himself by collapsing into analytical thought just before dying.

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Sheppard could feel someone on top of him, holding him down, someone who wasn't moving and was keeping him from precious air. He knew they were slowly being washed down the trench, wherever it led to. He had a feeling it was one of the unfinished tributaries that was supposed to bypass an older one and guide the new waters to the edge of the colony so the people wouldn't have so far to walk to obtain their supply. If that was the one, then not only had he reached the end, he was trapped, pressed against the wall with no way out. He sluggishly shoved at the body pinning him, his arms barely able to move, his lungs bursting, and knew he would either pass out or inhale. Neither was a good option.

The body shifted slightly, and he managed to stick a hand out. Air. He felt air, cold, wet air. Somehow just a few feet above him, but he couldn't get there.

He was going to breathe in. He had to.

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He didn't know how. He just knew he was freed, and that it had hurt like hell. He remembered someone gripping him, putting him on his back as he thrashed desperately, holding his hands tight against his torso, and sticking something into each nostril to clear the muck. He sneezed violently for ages, trying hard to gasp in the air that his fighting body was depriving him of. But his nose cleared, he could breathe again, and the coughing fit started. And he remembered one thing, one sensation that sickened him.

The ground had tried to suck him back in. It wasn't enough that it took away the water, it wanted flesh as well.

Rodney rolled onto his stomach and gasped, curling into ball, coughing, sucking in air, coughing more. The ground was freakishly solid compared to what he had been released from. The person that had pulled him out was gone, and all around him he heard screams and wails. The wind was still intense, but not as much, driving the rain into his eyes like straight pins as he pushed onto his elbows and tried to focus. "Colonel?" he rasped. He knew Sheppard has been beside him when the skies broke open and invited hell in. He turned and used his elbows to drag himself through the mud to the edge of the trench. "Colonel!" He coughed again, aware that his yell couldn't be heard over the noise. Trying to look around him was damned near useless. He'd have to wait and hope for the best, because at the moment he wasn't going anywhere.

That was when the hand popped out.

Rodney didn't think. He grabbed it, and pulled.

A sand-filled horror of a creature crawled out, soaked to the bone, covered with . . . everything. Rodney stared at the unrecognizable form for a moment in the obscuring darkness, with the moon peeking out only to see what havoc was wrecked before hiding once more behind the clouds. It wasn't until the other hand gripped his firmly that he realized who he had rescued. "Colonel?"

Sheppard nodded. He was trying to pull himself fully onto the flimsy shore, but was weakened, and slid back in.

Rodney made a frantic grab at him. "No! Nonono! Stay with me, Sheppard! Come on!" A fit of coughing consumed him, and it was all he could do to maintain his grip.

Sheppard's eyes focused, and he again reached up with his other hand. Rodney grabbed on for dear life and pulled.

Another arm emerged from the drek, and a face gasped beside Sheppard, clutching his shirt, pulling at him, tugging him down. Rodney panicked as his grip on Sheppard slipped, and he actually slapped at the intrusion. "Stop it! Wait, I can't pull you both out! Let go!" It was a horrible thing to say, but he wasn't thinking. "Just hang on! I can't, dammit Sheppard, help me here!"

Sheppard still wasn't able to speak, but was well aware of what was going on. And his grip was slipping. His eyes focused on Rodney's, and Rodney balked.

"You're shitting me," he said, shaking his head vigorously. "No fucking way." The grip continued to slid. "You hear me? I said no fucking way!" He yelled over his shoulder in desperation. "HEY! A LITTLE HELP HERE?"

Hands came from nowhere, and pulled him away from the trench. Rodney objected instantly, and stopped as Sheppard and the other man were both lifted from the muck. Sheppard coughed violently as Rodney had, rolling onto his chest and trying to push himself up. Rodney crawled to him, bracing him, looking at the other rescuee. He held on to his friend tightly, and allowed a sigh of relief to escape as he patted Sheppard's back reassuringly.

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The recovery process was painful. Somehow many of the tents survived the onslaught, some buried underneath the shifted sands, others thrown into trenches for protection. But many were gone for good, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing, considering the morbid thought that there were no longer as many people to occupy them.

Bodies were pulled from the three trenches that had served as shelters. Most were buried at the end of the trench McKay and Sheppard had found themselves in, suffocated underneath the mudslide, or drowned before getting there. Around them the wailing of the stricken was as disturbing as the howling of the wind, the same monotone, the same grief.

Sheppard had no qualms about getting the bodies out. Once he had sufficiently recovered, his hand were plunging into the muck, searching slowly for a body. Some were pulled out by their hands, some by their feet. Rodney finally joined in, and they worked together, yet apart. It wasn't until a small arm presented itself, lifeless, and Rodney pulled the tiny girl from the mud, that Sheppard realized the effect the catastrophe was having on his friend. He stared at the small body, his mouth working silently, his eyes tearing. And he slowly pulled her to him, and held her.

Sheppard stopped what he was doing, his own eyes tearing as he watched this hard-assed, selfish, domineering scientist gently rock the dead child back and forth. He didn't stop until the mother arrived, screaming, and tore her away from him. He sat still for a moment, then simply stood, and walked away.

And Sheppard let him go.

Dawn broke. The suns were as red as the moon had been, and the air was thick. Bodies were lined up beside the trench, each one covered in muddy-white cloth. All together, there were one hundred and twenty-two, averaging to roughly a fourth of the colony's population.

Sheppard's task was to assist in completely filling in one side of a trench that lay half a mile from the city. It was fairly new, and connected to nothing. It would be shortened, and used as a mass grave.

He still hadn't seen Rodney.

Eight other men worked with him. He didn't bother to find out their names, and they left him alone, except for the odd glance. In fact, if he got too near, they would edge down from him, keeping their distance. That hadn't happened before, and he was finding himself wondering if they held him responsible somehow, being an alien to them and all. It was obvious that this particular storm wasn't of the typical fare, and now there were less people to work. And less to water, but still. He saw how greedily the planet sucked the moisture away from the people. With the sun up only a few hours, the massive storm had left nothing behind. The tributaries were holding but a smatter of water, the smoothed sides preventing the moisture from escaping so quickly. People were manning the pumps; large, metal machines that sucked water from the tributaries and dumped it into large glass barrels. Later, the water would be run through a sifter over and over to help purify it.

About forty barrels were filled.

The bodies were buried by the evening. Every surviving member of the colony helped, and every surviving member of the colony was present for a mass gathering at the grave, children included.

Word were said above the mournful wails. Many children had died, crushed by the weight of the people over them. If there was one thing Sheppard had noticed, it was the way the colony had taken pride in their young. Mothers yelled and shook their fists at the suns overhead, cursing the god for making their lives so hard, and for taking the life-fulfilling waters from them as well as their children. For slowly killing their planet.

It was more than Sheppard could stand. He crept away to his tent, then to Rodney's.

The man was in neither.

Now he was seriously worried. He had no idea where to look for his friend, there weren't many places for him to go. Unless he struck out on foot for the jumper, which was possible, but not very probable. Of course with the state of mind he was in, any escape was a good one. Sheppard wandered the colony, looking for signs of Rodney's whereabouts, and found nothing.

Brouk caught up with him about an hour later, as the crowds sadly dispersed. "I want to thank you for your assistance," he said sincerely.

"Yeah, I was . . ." he almost said 'glad to help', but really . . . "I don't suppose you've seen Rodney anywhere, have you?"

Brouk slowly shook his dark head. "I have not. He was not . . ." he couldn't bring himself to ask, and rather sheepishly pointed to the long mound in the distance.

"Huh? Oh, no. No, he survived. Pulled a young girl out, and couldn't take it anymore."

"It was a hard thing to do."

"Haven't seen him since."

"Sometimes a man must cope in his own way, deal with the situation as he sees fit," Brouk said, hesitating just outside his own tent, which was half supported by long staffs, "I would give him a little more time. If he does not appear by morning, we will search."

"I'm thinking he may have gone back to the jumper."

Brouk frowned. "Understandable, but not wise. We shall see." And with that, he gave a nod of dismissal and entered.

Sheppard stared at the flap for a moment, and moved on.