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Darling should hear the sand crunch beneath his feet, the creak of his containment suit, his own breath, the thudding of his heart. There's nothing. No, there's a quiet resonance, thrumming in his skull.
He can see them now in the distance: five monoliths, like a hand outstretched in beckoning or warning.
Out of the corner of his eye, Darling sees one of the others double over. It's happening again. He thought they'd learned how to counter this. Darling should hear the agent's screams, his own voice offering assistance, the agent's futile pleas as the resonance shreds him. There's nothing.