Quinn froze, his muscles locking against joints.
There were at least thirty of them, the tallest looming above the rest so high he had trouble fathoming how tall it really was. Its head surpassed the second story of the nearest building by at least five feet, its frame so thin and rickety, it swayed with the wind.
The stilts barked and grunted at one another.
Quinn edged backward.
Three feet from the building.
His foot crunched broken glass.
The closest of them began to turn, and he bolted to the door, sliding inside and letting it close, the short jangle of the bell overhead making him wince. His heart banged in his ears covering any sounds from outside. He crouched near the door, peering through the front windows that lined the street.
A spindly leg and torso stepped into view.
Quinn slunk down, hand scrabbling for the lock on the front door, but there was none. It locked from outside. He cradled the bag and cane and crawled forward, skirting a display for shampoo as the door rattled behind him.
He didn’t look back, only moved, ignoring the rustic tinkle of the bell above the door.
It was going to see him.
Quinn slid around the end of the aisle and waited, sweat trickling down his nose, down his spine. Something scraped near the front of the store. The deep croaking filled the space, then silence. He chanced a look around the shelving.
The stilt stood near the door, its long head brushing the ceiling. Its hands clenched and released over and over as it sniffed the air. Smelling. Seeking.
It moved into the aisles, feet rasping on the tile floor. Quinn lunged forward, crawling as quietly as he could to the pharmacy. Then he was through the open door, past the pick-up window, shoulder blades against the desk, breath racing in and out of his lungs. Without waiting, he sidled into the first aisle and made it to the back of the store.
There was no rear exit.
He spun in place, looking for a window, another doorway, anything.
Something tipped over in the front of the store with a crash. He used the cover of the sound to move back along the rows of drugs before setting the bag and cane down. He glanced over the top of the pick-up counter.
The stilt was closer, its long arms sweeping products from shelves as it moved toward the pharmacy. It hissed and pawed at the corpse on the floor before leaning in to feed.
Quinn ducked down, mind racing. He drew out the revolver and stared at it. There was an entire herd outside the door. They would hear a shot. He would be trapped inside as they poured in and eventually tore him apart.
Something shattered, closer this time.
His eyes roamed the space around him. Drugs, shelves, office chairs, the door (mostly glass), a rock painted a multitude of colors on the floor.
He stared at the rock.
It was a doorstop for the pharmacy entrance. It was semi-round and roughly the size of a softball. A sloppy, yellow smiley face was painted in its center.
He snaked a hand out and pulled it to him, waiting for the creature to roar. There was a tinkling of glass and then a loud sneeze. He worked himself beneath the pick-up counter and drew his feet in as footsteps came closer and stopped outside the pharmacy door.
Long seconds ticked by.
The stilt grunted and stepped inside.
He had two rapid heartbeats to decide if he would move or not.
He moved.
Quinn eased out from beneath the counter as the stilt took another step down the closest aisle. He wound back his arm and threw the rock as hard as he could at the back of its head.
The rock flew through the air and connected with the stilt’s skull, the pale, hairless skin there splitting open in a spatter of blood.
It fell forward, trying to grab onto a shelf as it plummeted, but its hand met only empty air. It flattened on the pharmacy floor, arms above its head, blood dribbling down its neck.