“We appreciate it,” Quinn said. “We’ll move on at first light.”
There was a muted scratching sound, and the man turned his light on the corner of the cellar. Denver was pawing at a place in the corner, his nails raking the dirt up in furrows.
“Keep that dog from diggin’,” the man said, taking a quick step forward. Denver looked up, glancing at all of them as Ty found his collar with one outstretched hand.
“Sorry,” Ty said.
“Place is wrecked enough as it is. Don’t need more damage down here.” With that, he clicked the light off and moved across the room where they heard him settle to the ground. Alice squeezed Quinn’s hand, bringing her mouth to his ear.
“What the hell?”
“I’m not sure. We’ll just get through the night. Find another vehicle in the morning. Maybe we can make Iowa by tomorrow.”
She released his hand, and they huddled together on the floor in the complete dark. Outside the stilts growled and chuffed, their bullfrog voices intermingling as they called to one another.
Alice slowly slumped closer to him and finally rested her head on his shoulder. A warmth bloomed there that spread through him, fluttering wings in his stomach.
“Are you okay to stay awake?” she asked, her voice heavy with sleep.
“Yes. I’ll keep watch.”
As her breathing evened and the sounds of the stilts receded further, his mind drifted, the utter blackness around him like being in the vacuum of space. He closed his eyes and opened them. No difference. The man shifted and then fell quiet. Quinn kept his hand on the revolver, finger in the trigger guard until the first light of dawn crept into the cellar through the cracks in the ceiling.
~
When it was full light, they ventured up the stairs and into the ruins of the shack above. The little house had been destroyed. Two of the four walls were gone, torn away like wreckage from a high-speed crash. Pots and pans, old newspapers, shattered wood and glass all littered the floor. Outside the sun lit the small clearing and churned earth, the greening trees in the surrounding forest tipping with the breeze. The herd of stilts was nowhere to be seen.
The man murmured that his name was Hilton when Quinn asked. He didn’t say if it was his first or last. He seemed indifferent to their presence, and when Quinn suggested that they scout the immediate area, he merely fed more shells into his shotgun and headed out across the field.
Quinn followed and caught up with him after having Alice lock her, Ty, and Denver in the cellar. Hilton’s eyes were bright in the light of day, their gaze roaming the earth, the trees, and Quinn’s face from time to time. They moved across the field, its surface trampled by the long tracks of the stilts. When they entered the plantation, the air grew quiet around them. The birdsong that had accompanied them to that point, gone. Quinn hesitated at the border but continued after the old man when everything remained still.
When they arrived at the farmhouse where they’d left the truck the night before, Hilton stopped and slowly lowered himself to the ground. Quinn did the same, spotting movement a fraction of a second later.
Three stilts stood in the driveway, their arms at their sides, only their heads moving in a panning of the land around them.
“Damn,” Quinn said under his breath.
“They’re lookin’ for ya,” Hilton said.
Quinn glanced at him and then back at the towering creatures.
“No, they’re…” He was about to say, they’re not that smart. But were they? Were they staking out their vehicle in hopes that they would return? If they were, then was there a chance that there were more hidden and watching from other angles?