The sulfur sky was a thin fog that smeared the horizon like finger paint and turned the three moons—Miya, Dota, and Castelor—to triplet discs devoid of definition. It smelled like pig shit. Jorge tried not to talk to keep the taste out of his mouth.
“How far you think that tower is?” asked Dom.
“How far you think we’ve gone? Five klicks?”
Jorge threw his hands up and shook his head.
“You think Vasil’s gonna make it? Jorge? I said, ‘You think Vasil’s gonna make it?'”
“There are times, Dom, when it is better not to speak.” Jorge continued his trudge toward the black rectangular monolith across the incalculable distance of the barren yellow wastes.
But Dom stopped. “Hey,” he called, “I asked you a question.”
“And now you’ve made a statement. If you worked as hard as your mouth perhaps we would not be here.”
“Stop walking!” Dom picked up a fist sized chuck of graphite and chucked it at his companion. It missed his head by centimeters, but it seemed to catch his attention.
Jorge whirled around like a dust devil and hissed like a pit viper. “If you say a single word more I will spend the remainder of my days scattering your severed pieces across this hell so that your soul may never leave. You will walk. In silence. NOW!”
Dom walked toward the tower, passing Jorge and uttering a curse beneath his breath—just loud enough to be heard.
Notes: I used an image as a writing prompt for this piece. You may be able to find the image on the artist’s ArtStation page. Image by Thomas Dubois, used with permission.