The first thing Ted Rockson saw when he awoke the next morning was a large, black, ugly bird, with wings that must have been at least eight feet across and a strange hooked beak. It was flying in circles perhaps ninety feet above him, its red eyes looking down with great curiosity. Suddenly it swooped lower, the table-sized wings flapping out sharp snapping noises in the air. Rock’s heart sped to double time as he reached for his shotpistol. But the moment he had the gun in hand and his arm thrust out, the great bird saw the motion and was already swooping away, the huge black wings releasing a few feathers here and there as they stroked hard. The bird gave him a quick little turn of the head as it tore across the prairie, and then was just a dot in the sky. Rock had almost fired before he realized what it was—a vulture. A big one, but vultures are only interested in the dead. These huge birds were carrion eaters. He had never seen one go after something living, not even a rabbit or small mammal.
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