Oblivion Calls: Welcome to the Apocalypse

By D. Cullen Nolan

Welcome to the not too distant future. It’s brimming with potential but mired in crises. The wars of men threaten peace. The Ring of Fire is rumbling and dormant volcanoes are spewing molten earth. An ancient plague is reborn and spreading its horrid contagion. There are a special few blessed and burdened with ultimate potential. What’s the world coming to?
Oblivion Calls.
Isaiah’s been in Afghanistan far too long. He wants to go home, but there’s one last mission.
Ali’s been lost for too long. He wants a holy mission, but there’s more he must endure.
Phillipe answered his calling. He wants to save them all, but knows he can’t.
Suzie’s searching for the story everyone wants to see. She may have found it in China.
Ma Feng survived the earthquake, but that’s the least of her worries.
Pixie’s on the Infamous List. She wants to stay there, but can’t stop peeing herself.
Gabby’s touring the USA with Retro Rockets. They want to be the next big thing on their own terms.
Evan’s convinced something dreadful is on the way and having one of those ‘I hate it when I’m right’ moments.
CB’s trying to stay busy. He’s fixing up Evan’s house, but keeps getting strange letters.
From Afghanistan to LA, from China to Virginia, things are going very wrong. Earthquakes aren’t supposed to be this frequent. One girl shouldn’t be so feverish all the time. The sick aren’t supposed to riot. The dead are supposed to die. There are those that say, “the End is Nigh!”
Welcome to the Apocalypse!

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. Cullen Nolan
• Release date: Nov 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9780982042830

D. Cullen Nolan

D. Cullen Nolan plots epic sagas while serving undercover as a history teacher at a public high school in northern Virginia. Curious eyes and ears consume information at an alarming rate. Insistent hands write, strum, drum, and quest for the ever elusive more. There was extensive schooling and education, wisdom achieved through experience, multiple paths explored. It all led here.

Book preview

OBLIVION CALLS: Welcome to the Apocalypse

By

D. Cullen Nolan

Published by Phoenix Tree Publishing

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 D. Cullen Nolan/Phoenix Tree Publishing

ISBN: 978-0-9820428-3-0

Smashwords Edition, License Notes-

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Disclaimer-

This book is a work of fiction. Incidents, names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. Resemblances to actual people, locales, or events are coincidental and not intended to accurately portray them.

Acknowledgements-

I’d like to thank Jaime for all the encouragement and support the best wife in the world has to offer. Thanks are due to my artistic/design team of Adam Glazer and Russ McIntosh for another amazing cover, and also to Jasmine Michelle Clark for critical copy editing. This book wouldn’t exist without y’all, now on to destroy civilization as we know it.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Character List

GNN Headline News 1

Chapter 1- Cracking the Roof of the World

Chapter 2- A Visit to the Hospital

Retro Rockets Blog

Chapter 3- Deceptive Calm

Rolling Stone Live Review

Chapter 4- There Cannot be a Pyre Without a Spark

Chapter 5- Rise & Fall of the Glorious Leader

GNN Headline News 2

Chapter 6- That Awkward Moment

Chapter 7- Nine Scorpions

Chapter 8- Its Gonna be a Long Morning

Chapter 9- Its Gonna be a Long Day

Chapter 10- Its Gonna be a Long Night

Chapter 11- The Crumbling Façade of Normality

Chapter 12- Armageddon Sun

Author’s Note

CHARACTER LIST

Afghanistan

Phillipe Baptiste- Doctors Without Borders Station Chief for Badakshan

Jorge Garzia- Doctors Without Borders

Amira Moadib – Doctors Without Borders

Patrice Mubumba – Doctors Without Borders

Eugene Sampson – Doctors Without Borders

Isaiah Bristow- Logistical Support Team Leader, Sergeant US Army Task Force 134

Sultana Philby- Logistical Support Team, Sergeant, US Army Task Force 134

Ilkhan Snowden- Logistical Support Team, Sergeant, US Army Task Force 134

Jason Warner- Logistical Support Team, Sergeant, US Army Task Force 134

Chaga Khan- Kyrgyz Tribal Chief

Rahman- Eldest son of Chaga

Korga-Wife of Rahman

Ismail- Son of Rahman

Samir- Second son of Chaga

Azam al Nasrahi- Caliph of Al Qaeda

Ali Ghazi al Sudani- Vizier of Al Qaeda

Yusuf al Grozny- Ghazi Jihadi of Al Qaeda

Sybyla-Wife of Yusuf

Ibrahim- Son of Yusuf

Akhtar- Afghan National Police, BTR commander

Deqan- Afghan National Police, BTR driver

Shadraqullah- Afghan National Police, BTR crew

Gadoosh- Afghan National Police, BTR crew

Nathan Reese- Major, US Army Task Force 134

Beauregard Lomax- Colonel, US Army Task Force 134

Hermann Kolbe- Captain, Germany Army, UN ISAF

Niko- Operator, US Army Task Force 134

Slim- Helicopter Pilot, Captain, US Army Task Force 134

Finn- Pararescue, Sergeant, US Army Task Force 134

Oxley- Pararescue, Sergeant, US Army Task Force 134

China

Jose Chang- Reporter for Gaia News Network

Suzie Zhou- Field Producer for Gaia News Network

Stan Arbuckle- Cameraman for Gaia News Network

Kenny Fu- Translator

Lon Don- People’s Representative of China

Bai Nixa- Nurse’s assistant

Ma Feng- Nurse’s assistant, daughter of Xon & Fey

Ma Xon- Hospital maintenance engineer

Ma Fey- Nurse

Peng Yi Yong- Soldier of Tiger Shadows

Li Chan- Peng’s mentor

Shang- Commander of Tiger Shadows

Mahmut Khitai- State Security

Tao Khitai- Younger brother of Mohamut

Tzu- General, Chinese State Security forces

Zhou- Commissar, Chinese Politburo

Nigel Chatham- Field Producer for BBC News

Courtney Ulmer- Reporter for BBC News

Gavin Percy- Cameraman for BBC News

Retro Rockets

Lee Oliver- Guitar, vocals

Marcus Wofford- Bass, vocals

Kleo- Keyboards, vocals

Julio- Horns

Gabby McKenzie- Drums

Cyrus- Tour Manager

California

Pixie- Infamous List

Max Cumming- Carpenter

Sydney- Pixie’s manager

Terry Troublemaker- Journalist-intern for Rolling Stone

Virginia

Evan Oliver: Professor of History at Mary Washington University, married to Lisa

Lisa Oliver: Assistant Director of International Graduate Studies at Mary Washington University

James ‘Jim’ Oliver: EMT intern, Son of Evan & Lisa, nephew to Lee

Bailey Oliver: Son of Evan & Lisa, nephew to Lee

Beatrice Delgado: Friend of Bailey

Ashley Habstrom: Friend of Bailey

CB Mosby: General Contractor

Solomon Mosby: Engineering student at Virginia Tech, Son of CB

Merle: Supervisor of Rockingham’s Hardware Store

Jethro ‘Jet’ Snodgrass: Second son of Hank

Patsy Ruth Snodgrass: Wife of Hank

Hank Snodgrass: Mechanic

Cletus Snodgrass: Eldest son of Hank

Frank Sandidge: EMT

Mike Jefferson EMT

Gaia Global News Network- Headline News Ticker

In the last 72 hours a series of earthquakes have struck Central Asia, with epicenters in: the Northwest Frontier of Pakistan, northern Afghanistan, Tajikistan, and Kyrgyzstan. The quakes are estimated to range in strength from 7.8 to 9.1 on the Richter Scale . . . the UN Conference on Peacekeeping Operations in Central Asia has adjourned due to the earthquakes . . . Israel has warned intervention may prove necessary in the Syrian Civil War if terrorists continue raiding the Golan Heights border zone . . . Evacuation of Sicily continues as Mt. Etna continues its most violent eruption in over a century; some locals are refusing to leave their homes . . . Wimbeldon officials declare the games will go on, despite Great Britain’s 2nd economic downturn in five years. . . President Ke Sanga of the Congo has nationalized all diamond mines, continuing his ‘Heart of Africa’ Campaign to reinvigorate the nation . . . the WHO has confirmed an outbreak of Yellow Fever in troubled Colombia . . . Ford announces its most profitable quarter in the corporation’s history, having recently released the electric powered F150 series of trucks . . .

Chapter 1- Cracking the Roof of the World

Early May: Bozai Gumbaz, Afghanistan

Doctor Phillipe Baptiste of Doctors Without Borders turned his headset to All Channel. Ignoring the icy air, vibrating hull, and droning twin rotors, Phillipe started the memorized speech in his heavily French-accented English. The pilot has just informed me we are almost to Bozai Gumbaz. We have a very difficult assignment ahead of us. One of the epicenters was only a few kilometers northeast of here. This is already one of the most unforgiving places on earth. We will have limited communications with the outside world and can only rely on what we have with us. The people who live here are a sturdy lot, but have no doubt suffered more than we can imagine. I know we are all professionals, and I expect the very best from each and every one of you.

Phillipe took a calming breath, I wish to remind everyone this is a UN humanitarian mission, of which I am chief. We are here to save lives and assess damage. I will tolerate no foolishness and anyone caught acting . . . improperly, will be confined then dealt with back in Kabul. That is all. Over.

Doctors Jorge Garzia, Amira Moadib, and Patrice Mubumba were like siblings so he wasn’t worried about them. They’d all been in Badakshan Province for the last two years, making the annual week-long visit to the Little Pamir Valley during high summer. The new doctor, an American named Eugene Sampson, had excellent credentials and solid experience at Bagram, but was ex-US Army which worried Phillipe.

The logistical support team was on loan from Task Force 134, the US contingent of the UN International Security Assistance Force, and that also worried Phillipe. Their files looked good, but they were only words on a smart pad. On the other side of the cargo hold, obstructed by the mound of strapped supplies, Ilkhan Snowden shot a shitty glance at Isaiah Bristow, who rolled his eyes and finished off a cashew bar. Sultana Philby yawned and Jason Warner quintuple checked the list on his smart pad.

Peering out the frosted round window, Phillipe wondered how the Kyrgyz managed to survive year after year in one of the most desolate valleys on the ‘Roof of the World’. It was May but the snow was just beginning to melt in the narrower reaches of the valley, never more than five miles across. The Wakhan Darya, a shallow river rushing with runoff, snaked through the narrow, barren, rock strewn valley floor. White cloaked mountain ridges stretched tall and steep, holding back the rest of the world. He squinted at small black dots, a herd of yak stampeding from the throbbing echoes of the helicopters.

. . .

Two white Chinooks with blue UN letters descended on the outskirts of Bozai Gumbaz, kicking up a blizzard of slushy snow. The back doors opened and warrant officers made sure the gangways were cleared as the pilots set the twin rotors in neutral. The helicopters settled in while the blades gradually whined still.

Phillipe Baptiste was the first to step foot on the ground, with Amira Moadib close behind. She was Syrian and Phillipe liked his first appearance to be alongside someone who shared the faith or culture of the people they were visiting. A clutch of Kyrgyz men in threadbare coats and balding fur caps huddled close against the powdery blast, but the eldest walked forward upon recognizing Baptiste. Phillipe’s chest ached at the brace of high altitude air, and at sight of the ruined mud brick and wooden buildings behind the three stoic faced men.

Ah salaam aleykum, Chaga Khan greeted the French doctor with cordial kisses on both cheeks. The Kyrgyz chieftan’s right sleeve was empty.

God be with you, Baptiste replied in French then shifted to Dari, a Persian dialect common throughout Central Asia. We have come early this summer on account of the earthquake. Allah be merciful, did you lose your arm?

"Na, no, Chaga Khan loosed a few top buttons on his coat, revealing his arm wrapped in rags and hanging from his neck, Just broken. Inshallah, God willing, it is the least of my troubles. Tell me, did Allah punish only us?"

Baptiste shook his head, Many others across many valleys. The whole world knows of this great tragedy.

Baptiste looked over at the dilapidated concrete schoolhouse he planned on using as their hospital. The front was cracked and crashed, half the right wall fallen in, and goats were milling around inside. The white star symbol of its patron institute lay on the ground, sad as an ignored corpse. The rest of the village looked no better. Phillipe gazed wider, noticing the remnants of the old, beyond decrepit Soviet fort. Further up the sloping ground, domed tombs sacred to Chaga Khan’s people were little more than half buried broken eggs.

Where can we set up the hospital? Baptiste asked. He was tall and lean like Lincoln, with a deceptively goofy Jerry Lewis face.

We have our yurts. Chaga Khan was in his mid-fifties but looked seventy, hunched and stout, with windblown wrinkles hardening a wide moon face. He blinked slowly, sealing his grief hard inside.

The French doctor gently patted Chaga Khan’s good shoulder, I am so sorry.

Behind Phillipe, the other doctors were bringing out their personal gear. Two of the support team members, Snowden and Philby, were pulling on exoskeletons with the help of the warrant officers and their teammate, Warner. The support team’s leader, Bristow, was walking purposefully towards them in his uniform, a pattern of dusky grey and autumn browns. He’d removed his Army field cap and put on a beige Chitrali cap common to the region. It looked something like a khaki flat topped beret.

Crunching to a halt, Isaiah Bristow introduced himself to Chaga Khan after the traditional Arabic greeting, then in Kyrgyz promised, We’ll move heaven and earth to get your people back on their feet.

Will you need help sending word we’ve arrived? Isaiah Bristow switched to Dari, which he spoke with an Arabic accent.

Limping, blank faced Kyrgyz were stumbling forward through the wreckage of Bozai Gumbaz, called by the curiosity of the noisy helicopters and the hope of relief.

The helicopters were loud enough, Chaga Khan eyed the Chinooks.

Sergeant Bristow, we’ll need the medical tents set up as soon as possible. Phillipe’s Dari was bathed in French phonics. I don’t trust that schoolhouse.

Of course, Isaiah agreed. He was neither tall nor short, with wide shoulders, a narrow waist, and magnetic confidence. His face was boyishly smooth, but those amber eyes observed with a grandfather’s soul. Chaga Khan, my team can help corral your livestock once we’re done setting everything up.

Bristow nodded with an assured grin at Baptiste, then faced Chaga Khan and pointed up at the flat ground between the village and tombs, We’ll have them up and ready to go within the hour. Let me know if you need help bringing up your sick and wounded.

Doctor Baptiste felt a little better about this American. While he talked with Chaga Khan, the other doctors set up a first aid station around a pile of crates. The Kyrgyz waited silently, watching in amazement as Ilkhan Snowden and Sultana Philby unloaded massive crates weighing several hundreds pounds each. With the exoskeletons strapped to their bodies, the two removed everything quickly and with practiced efficiency in under half an hour. The Kyrgyz were in a quandary about which tribes the two were from; both being clearly Turko-Mongol.

Meanwhile, Isaiah Bristow and Jason Warner set to laying out the tents. Several young Kyrgyz men offered to help and laughed when each member of the support team conversed with them in Dari, finding something useful for them to do. Once the medical, technical, food, and fuel piles were complete, Snowden and Philby shifted to the more delicate work of setting up the medical facilities. As promised, within an hour three cottage sized tents were erected with generators, lights, heaters, medical equipment, cots, and operating tables dispersed throughout.

Phillipe and Ghaga came over to admire the fast and professional work.

Impressive, Sergeant Bristow, Doctor Baptiste complimented in English. He was rubbing his arms against the cutting breeze that sliced down from the Whakhjir Valley to the south, and hacked at them from Lake Chaqmaqtin to the east.

Now the real work can begin, Bristow replied in Dari so everyone understood, eyeing Chaga Khan respectfully. Inshallah, some of your people will be feeling better before morning prayer.

You are a miracle, thank you all, Ghaga Khan kissed Bristow in the French fashion as a drop of water formed at the corner of each eye. Allah has not forsaken us.

A light snow began to fall as the Chinooks wound up for departure.

. . .

Phillipe was on his satellite phone with the director of Doctors Without Borders-Afghanistan, headquartered in Kabul. Everything’s ruined, everyone’s hurt: broken bones, lacerations, malnutrition, infection, pneumonia, dysentery, gangrene, scurvy . . . yes, scurvy. . . I don’t know how much we can help with what little we have.

Sergeant Jason Warner was a few feet away, monitoring the electric generator, satellite feed, computer server, and wi-fi transmitter. Having adjusted various settings on the machines, he consulted his smart pad. All communications beamed out from the system were blind copied to every link in their own chain of command from Task Force 134 up to the Pentagon, National Security, and Central Intelligence.

They were situated among the wrecked tombs looking down on the remains of Bozai Gumbaz, the mission site, and the confluence where the creeks from Chaqmaqtin and Wakhjir merged into the Wakhan Darya.

When the doctor finished and disconnected, Warner asked, How was the signal, sir?

Very good, as if we were in the same room, Baptiste lit a cigarette and pulled the collar up on his pea coat, Snow in May. Where I’m from the girls are in sundresses.

I like the sound of that, where are you from, sir? Warner wondered. He looked more like a Ken doll than a tech geek.

Carcassone, a town in the south of France; I haven’t been home in over three years. Baptiste looked up at the white peaks barricading them, graying the dusk.

Oh, what I’d give for a peak of sundress right now, Warner chuckled.

Doctor Jorge Garzia came rushing up, sliding in the snow. He was pudgy, heaving cold mist from raspy lungs. The Brazilian’s tawny skin was getting ashy from the cold.

Hey, careful around the equipment! Warner stepped between Garzia and the system.

Garzia gripped Baptiste’s arm, Phillipe, you need to see this, now.

The urgency in the Brazilian’s eyes, uneasiness in his voice, and firmness of his fingers convinced Phillipe. They rushed for the medical tents without another word.

No problem, Warner waved at their backs, I’ll cover this all up and secure it by myself. Wait, that’s my job, damnit.

. . .

As the two doctors made their way to the medical tents, Sergeants Sultana Philby and Ilkhan Snowden were sharing cups of chai with the family of Rahman, Chaga Khan’s eldest son. He was in his early thirties or late twenties, a younger and skinnier reflection of his father. They were huddled in the center of a circle of yurts not far from the mission site; Khan’s family cooking up a long overdue feast for their people straggling in.

No, Sultana shook her head as they conversed in Dari. Soft cheekbones and an innocent face were betrayed by a jagged scar running at a diagonal from the left corner of her reddish black hairline, down through her left eyebrow, alongside then under her nose, down the right side of her mouth onto her neck, and disappearing finally under her jacket collar. My mother’s Uzbek. I have family in Samarkand. How long has your family been here?

Despite the scar, sun glittered, almond shaped eyes radiated kindness. Sultana was tall and the uniform masked her womanly curves. While the elder Kyrgyz quietly debated whether it was proper she worked among men at manly tasks, the children were openly awestruck by the woman who wore the metal suit.

Oh, many generations, Rahman shrugged. He tried and failed to avoid staring at her scar. My grandfather refused to leave when the Russians invaded. Father says if we can survive the Russians, we can survive anything.

Ilkhan broke a cashew bar in half and offered a piece to Rahman, It’s good with chai.

Rahman eyed the rectangular conglomeration of cereal, nuts, and paste then dunked it in his tea. He moaned at the luxury then gave the rest to his wife, Korga.

Isaiah Bristow walked by the outskirts of the Khan’s ordu with Rahman’s young twenty something brother, Samir. They were escorting another family towards the medical tents. Rahman got up and greeted the family elder, collected sad news, and offered them supper once they were settled. Upon returning, he pointed in the direction of the family.

They’re from this side of the lake, walked all day when they heard helicopters. The grandmother didn’t make it.

That’s terrible, Sultana said a prayer to Allah for the old woman.

Ilkhan, Rahman, and the women and children finished the familiar prayer with her.

Rahman commented, Allah called to her, and she flew to him. It could have been worse. An uncomfortable silence stretched like a chasm, then Rahman asked Ilkhan, Your friend, what people is he from?

Bristow? I’m not sure, Americans are a mixed lot. Ilkhan replied. His limbs were thick as an oxen’s, and his torso was solid like a statue of some long dead hero, but his goblin face made men cautious. Why do you ask?

Rahman lit a recently provided cigarette and swayed as the buzz comfortably numbed him. He stared at the fire to avoid gaping rudely at their saviors, The only other dark people we’ve seen are Doctor Mubumba, who says he’s a Kongo, and another who says he’s Sudani. Are there as many dark peoples as there are Turks?

Yes, Ilkhan flashed a quick glance at Sultana, They are Africans, but many have . . . roamed, much like the Turks; sometimes not always by choice, like Bristow’s ancestors.

He does not look so much like the others. Rahman pointed out, He looks like a dark Ahmed Shah Massoud.

His wife laughed then unleashed a fusilade of Kyrgyz.

She says it’s the Chitrali cap, his smile and chin beard, Rahman puffed on the cigarette. She said more than that.

Sultana stood and thanked Rahman’s wife for the meal. I should go help Bristow. Rahman, this Sudanese you mentioned, does he work for one of the charities? Might we expect him to come help?

. . .

Phillipe and Jorge entered the medical tent, barely noticing the boy huddled outside the flaps. Eugene Sampson stood from the microscope he was peering through and walked over to the patient on the table.

Her temperature’s 104.

Eugene removed the blanket covering her. She was strapped to the table and her ragged robes were pulled down to her waist. There were purple-black, smooth bulbous lumps around her armpits and neck, and pinkish swirls amidst graying flesh. Blood was congealing around her ears, nose, and lips. She was sweating profusely, delirious in agony, twitching and jerking violently.

Mon Dieu, Baptiste muttered.

Wait, Eugene waved to the microscope. He looked like a biker nerd with his black handle bar moustache and professorial glasses.

Phillipe took a look and everything was wrong.

We’ve maxed her out on ibuprofen and pumped her full of doxycycline, Garzia didn’t sound confident.

Was she like this upon arrival? Baptiste turned once again to the patient.

Her fingers and toes were black necrotic.

Sampson shook his head, offering his smart pad, fever, migraine, body aches, and tenderness in the nodes upon arrival. Did you amplify the slide? Take a close look at the cellular makeup.

Baptiste returned to the microscope and zoomed in. When the autofocus cleared, he was stunned. Is that what I think it is? It doesn’t look right. I mean it does, but it’s almost as if . . . as if. . .

The bubonic plague is infected, Eugene speculated.

. . .

Doctor Phillipe Baptiste followed the contagion protocol. They searched out the other bubonic victims, providing them medicine and new clothes. While identifying more infected, the doctors explained to the scared and superstitious Kyrgyz the plague came from fleas and rodents. The support team set up a quarantine group of yurts and burned all the collected clothing. A few more families straggled in and the infected were sent immediately to the quarantined ordu.

After midnight the surge of activity slackened, most people asleep. Patrice Mubumba was taking care of the male infected and Amira Moadib the women. Ilkhan Snowden stood watch up at the communications system. The rest of the support team was packed into their tent, chatting about the work but hand signing the conversation that mattered.

They’ve occupied an old Buddhist monastery carved into side of tallest mountain south of here. They control passes into China and Pakistan, go into both, use Tajik pass when they need, take sheep and yak from locals as tribute, kidnap children for labor and keep families afraid. They’ve got Chaga Khan’s grandson. They preach jihad and push opium. It has to be him. Sultana communicated.

I’ll adjust signals sweep and send word up chain. Jason Warner signed.

Some one’s coming. Isaiah leaned his head back and shut his eyes, while hands drifted to holsters. Come on in Doc Sampson.

Eugene unzipped the flaps and slipped in. Toasty.

The solar-celled heater, reflective tent cloth, and body heat was doing the job.

He grinned handsomely at Sultana and for a few seconds she beamed like a smitten groupie who’d snuck backstage. Then she ran fingers down her scar and stared away.

Jesus, Doc, somebody explode on you? Warner guessed. Again?

Nah, Eugene sighed as he looked down at all the dark, crusty blood frozen to his coat. Some of them are projectile vomiting blood. He didn’t mention it was a child, the boy waiting outside the medical tent for his mother. Eugene went outside to check and the boy wretched all over him, moaned, then fell into a coma.

When you’re on watch, be extra careful if any more come in from the Wakhjir. Eugene warned, they seem to be the worst off.

Our target is up there. Thanks for the heads up, Doc. Sultana pushed her other thoughts deep down. The bullet scars in her arm and abdomen tingled with flesh memory.

I’m gonna sack out, Sampson yawned. Have you confirmed it’s them?

Isaiah shook his head no, Yeah, it was a long day and tomorrow will be longer. Not yet.

. . .

Dawn crept over the mountains fever pink, frostbite grey and drought brown. Amira Moadib, Ilkhan Snowden, and Sultana