"Come and join us," thundered a collective voice. "For we are Oren, who is one."
Morgan could see nothing through the screen of foliage. But the old man was still howling invective.
"From the stars comes Oren. To the stars he goes. Come and join us."
"Come get me, you devils. I'll kill ya!"
"Oren is millions. He cannot die. We come."
Hanson's foot nudged Morgan's nervously. Still he lay under cover, waiting for their advance. Feet shuffled on the bed of the truck. The hounds were going wild. There was something weird about sounds of Orenian movement. It was always coordinated—so many marionettes with one set of controls. But they could shift from parallel coordination to complementary, dovetailing each set of movements to achieve the common purpose.
Morgan burst forth from the brush and fired at the tight group of bodies near the back of the truck. They were packed in a circle to protect the group from the slashing fangs of the dogs. Two of them fell, without outcries. He fired three times before they broke apart. There were still at least eight of them, but the dogs had two down.
"Oh, God! Children!" Morgan bellowed. "Call off the dogs!"
"Not human children."