Shifting Sands

Late cold season 823 AA (After Apocalypse), 20136 AD

The desert fox waited patiently for the mouse to leave its hole. Hunting was a matter of patience, she knew. The mouse would come out when it felt safe and not before. A quivering nose poked cautiously from the dark hole, before disappearing in a flash. The fox knew she had not been scented; she was downwind. The mouse would check again in a few minutes.

Cold wind blowing from the North carried the scent of stone, and lichen, and a month-old goat horn. The fox was careful not to sniff for more information on the wind. The mouse would hear her, and would decide to stay put for hours more.

A fresh breeze, this time from the Northeast brought a new scent. Hunter-smell. Two Legger-smell.

The fox perked her ears. The hunters were coming right towards her. She would have to abandon this mouse in favor of staying alive. Even she could not compete with the smooth-skinned giants.

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The humans raced in silence over the desert sands. Most did so by choice. The rest were bound and gagged, many hoisted on poles and carried by other captives.

The raiders raced single-file. Their heads were wrapped in tattered tan or grey cloth, and goggles covered their eyes. Bodies were wrapped in cloth bindings, over which was worn a long hooded vest, cinched tight, covered with pockets. Their feet were wrapped in bandages, and they wore sandals made from woven plant fibers; the older, wealthier raiders had rubber. Each member carried a staff with a blade at one end and a flat, curved opposite end, for flipping snakes out of the way when running at night (read 'Canyons' by Gary Paulsen).

The warleader was pleased. The raid had yielded many needed supplies, and good food, and untainted water, and metal utensils. Even though they had been forced away from the direct path home, the trackers had set them in the correct direction, and they would be welcomed back in their village soon. This region was full of easy pickings, not like their last home, which they had been forced to leave when a stronger group entered the area.

The lead man suddenly stopped, fist by his ear. Immediately, the entire troop halted, wary eyes scanning the area in the moonlight.

To the right, sand shifted. In silence, the troop formed a circle, captives in the center, blades at the ready. The two closest men stepped forward, one slightly behind the other, the circle closing behind them. That was no animal. An animal would not have moved enough to shift the sand, or would not even be in their vicinity.

On the left, sand shifted. The trooped tensed. Was it an ambush?

In an instant, all the sand lifted into the air like a miniature sandstorm.

The troop had no defense.

Sand tore through clothing.

Then through flesh. The hissing sand drowned out the screams of dying men and women.

Then bone.

Finally, the sand ground the metal blades dull, before settling down to earth.

Not once during the moments of horror did the wind rise.

The captives found themselves lying on the ground, surrounded by blood-soaked sand.

Wide-eyed, the former captives stared at the blackened ground. Then one of the men cautiously crawled to a fallen blade, and began to furtively cut through the ropes binding his wrists. He then freed a second man, and they began working to release the other captives. Then they fled, leaving the packs of food and supplies behind in their haste.

Two days later, the packs of food and supplies were found in the middle of their meager encampment.

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I like Gaara of the Desert. This fic will be post all story arcs.