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At first we thought the piled stones were waymarkers, showing the path taken by the first generation of survivors who fled the collapsing city. Then we thought them gravestones, marking where they’d buried those the sickness claimed along the way. As we approached the outskirts, we found toppled stones, the dirt around them clawed by fingernails, and we realized those piles were never meant to mark where the dead had fallen. They were meant to hold them down in case they rose again.
Short story written by Peter Chiykowski
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