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The
Rocks were Alive
Lan Martak
tossed and turned, then half-woke. He rubbed sleep from his eyes with an
icy hand and wondered what troubled him. Clayborne's nightmares were
strangely absent. He sat up and glanced around. Nothing. He lay back and
soon drifted again to sleep, the uneasiness gnawing at the fringes of
his consciousness like a cat worrying a mouse.
The moaning
of rock moving sounded over the faint wail of the wind. Huge dark shapes
moved with barely perceptible progress toward the camp. Heat radiated
from each sleeping human, heat attracting the creatures. They rolled
closer, ponderous and stony. Tiny rocks circling one tent holding a
pilgrim. The stones crowded closer. The man inside cursed as a flailing
elbow smashed into rock.
Larger
stones rolled up. A boulder joined them. The man's curses were replaced
by a high-pitched scream as the rocks, in a concerted effort, all rolled
over him, crushing life from his struggling body.
His death
screams were caught on the wind and smothered. Even those sleeping a few
feet away didn't hear.
The smaller
stones ground themselves down into the bloody pulp remaining, while the
larger rocks moved on--to another victim.
And another
and another and still another.
The sentient
rocks circled Lan Martak, waiting for their larger companions to come.
The human
slept on, dream-free but restless.
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