Ezekiel's Children Flash Fiction

         “We need to build a windmill,” she said, clapping her hands together softly to knock off some stubborn clumps of dirt.  She put one hand on her hip, stretching her lower back as she wiped the back of her other hand across her forehead, leaving a streak of grime. 
         “I know,” he said, grunting as he pushed the plow deep into the hard soil.  The old mule pulling the plow brayed, and he hissed a curse between gritted teeth.  She bent low to the earth again, scooping a handful of seeds from the bag around her neck and scattering them in the trench he had plowed earlier that morning.  He cursed again and she sighed, looking at the cracked ground that had inspired her first statement.  The rains hadn't come that spring, or the spring before that, and it was going to be a hard year.
         “The crop may not make it without that water,” she said, turning her face into the constant wind.  It never stopped blowing here, and the flat plains and short, stunted trees made her miss the pineywoods of East Texas.  Today's breeze carried a gritty taste of topsoil and she turned a slow circle, studying the horizon. 
         To the east, low clouds menaced the ground like an overeager lover searching for an embrace.  She already knew that they weren't true clouds, and they certainly didn't carry the life-giving rain they desperately needed.  He abandoned the mule to grazing on a lonely patch of weeds and stood next to her, his body shaking from the exertion and covered in a smooth sheen of sweat.  He slipped an arm around her shoulders and she glanced down, relieved to see the lever action .45-70 in his other hand.  His eyes were fixed on the clouds in the distance. 
         She glanced over her shoulder at the heavy log palisade they had made together, that first winter.  The weather in this part of Texas didn't get cold enough to slow them down in the winter, but the long sightlines provided by the plains made it a desirable area to settle in.  A small log cabin waited for them behind the wooden walls, a spindly tower raising its ugly head next to it.  She bit her lip, mentally going through the canned supplies and jerked meat they had stored in the house.  Not enough – never enough.
         He was still staring into the distance.  His knuckles were white on the rifle.  Even the mule lifted his head from his meager meal, stems still hanging from his lips.  They had maybe two hours before it was on top of them.  She hoped against hope, tried to convince herself against everything she knew, that those clouds would unleash a downpour of rain on their heads.  Their odd red hue marked them clear as day, however – dust storms.  Another breeze swept through, this one hotter than the last and carrying more abrasive grit.  She shivered despite its heat, feeling the fear wrap slimy fingers around her heart.  She held him tighter, but he seemed not to notice, his gaze still fixed on the coming storm. 
         When the dust comes, so do the Zekes. 
         “We still need to build a windmill,” she said.