Hypno-Hallucinogens are Dangerous.

I am flying in a slight breeze, exploring a desert that just appeared out of nowhere, when the Commodore appears in a muddy Jeep. "You're looking at the symptom, my dear Hero. Things would go more smoothly if you checked out the cause first. Standard protocol in investigative procedures." He strides forward smugly, Indiana Jones hat set in a rakish manner, to examine the sand. He pinches a bit. Brings it to his nose. Sniffs. "Interesting," he mutters.
"What??" I exclaim, trying to peer over his shoulder.
"This isn't real sand."
....
The Commodore tracks the sand-signature to a manufacturing company in San Diego. The sign over the warehouse is old and the place looks like it hasn't been in use for quite some time. I peer in a grimy window, and can make out a few tiny figures moving inside. They look like...children. I sneak over the skylight and down into the building. "Hello?" Three little boys and a girl scramble behind a pile of empty packing crates. The dust they disturbed billows up in momentary obfuscation of my brain. I cough, trying to order my thoughts. "Er- Are you all right? I know you're here. I'm not going to hurt you, I'm just trying to figure out a certain mystery. Perhaps you could help me? It has to do with sand. Lots of sand." The little girl breaks from the others, hesitantly, and steps out of her hiding place.
"What d'you know about the Sand?" She asks suspiciously. "Where've you seen it?"
"Up north, in Oregon. Took a huge swath of the eastern countryside. Whole towns disappeared."
"Did you touch it?" She shouts, stepping back as if I carry a disease.
"Well, no, but my companion did. Anyway, we were just wondering where it came from, and traced it to this factory. If you could be so kind as to help us find the manufacturers, well..." I pause. The girl is staring in fear at something behind me. I turn, quickly, because I hate it when moments like this are drawn out, and my skin is crawling enough already. It's Dylan. The Commodore. Sand is bursting from his orifices, like the Waters of Mars creatures from one of my least favorite episodes of Doctor Who. He staggers forward, reaching out a desperate hand.
"Crap!" I shout, grabbing the girl's hand and heading for the back exit. "I mean, run!"

We scamper out the back of the warehouse, the boys leading the way, dodging through abandoned cars and streets rapidly filling with the strange sand...