Catch the sand that falls away. Plea the wind to come, to bring it back. Falling from the skies, falling from sanity. One grain came back. One grain remained: You are the Pathfinder. You will lead. He dropped the arm and looked out. Two lay dead in his wake. But he needed to kill one more. And then he would lead. As he had always done, as he had been trained before. As what ran through his bloodstream as potent as the contagion itself. He would lead.
