Tide Worm. Rank B. Of course.
The thought lasts exactly as long as it takes the sand to settle. Then instinct takes over and the thinking stops.
The Ferredons are faster on the surface. That's the only thing keeping us alive.
The Worm moves underground with the heavy, rolling momentum of something that displaces earth the way whales displace water—massive, inevitable, but bound by drag. On open sand, the mounts outrun it.
For now.
The Worm resurges behind us, its segmented body half-submerged, carving a trench through the desert floor like a plow tearing through wet soil. The sound is sickening—a deep, grinding roar of calcified plates scraping against compacted sand.
It lunges.
The mouth opens behind Oliver's Ferredon—close enough that the ring of needle-teeth clips the animal's tail, ripping out thick tufts of fur that scatter into the wind like confetti at a funeral.
