“There’s no one else here, they all—” He let the last word fall away, and he dropped his eyes to the entryway floor. “Come in if you want,” he said, and made his way back to the living room. He knelt by the hearth and stirred the ashes. Beneath the feathery soot, a single ember glowed. Quinn rolled it to the center of the fireplace and began setting kindling over it. He blew into the hearth, ashes taking flight. The ember’s flare was the only light in the room, rising then falling with his insistence. After a few minutes, a flame sprang into life and began to lick at the small sticks of wood. As he was placing a larger piece of oak on the fire, the back door creaked and closed quietly. Quinn stood beside the warming fireplace and waited.
The woman appeared first in the doorway, sideling into view. A revolver, so large it was nearly comical, was in her left hand that she kept aimed at the floor. She looked close to his age and was thinner than he’d originally thought, and taller, almost as tall as he was. Her hair was very straight and very dark, hanging past her shoulders in a languid wave that nearly blended with the shadows behind her. Her face was round and ghost-white with two spots of color on her sallow cheekbones. She had a sharp nose that was incongruent with the rest of her face, though it seemed to lend an air of harsh beauty that was only more accented by her eyes that were like two sapphires reflecting the firelight. An ugly gash ran across the top of her forehead. Crusted blood dried in an uneven line from her right temple to her chin. She glanced around the large room, taking in all its corners before finding him, pinning him to the wall with her gaze. There was movement beside her in the hall at that moment and she reached for it, shielding the small shape beside her as she raised her handgun.
“You’ve got it!” she said, inching backward.
Quinn raised his hands, looking from one to the other, then back at her.
“Got what?”
“The disease. You’re sick, aren’t you?” She shot a look further into the house and then back at him as she retreated another step.
Realizing what she meant, Quinn put one palm against his face and then let his hands hang at his sides.
“No, I’m not sick. I’ve been this way since birth.”
“Bullshit, you’re just something new.”
“It’s called Fibrous Dysplasia. I’ve always looked this way.” He watched her, barely visible in the darkness beyond the doorway. “My name’s Quinn.”
There was a long pause and then a small voice came from behind the woman.
“I’m Ty.”
“Tyrus! We’re leaving. Don’t come any closer.”
“I’m telling the truth. I’m immune, or whatever passes for immune I guess. My father had it first and then my—” he almost said mother, but stopped himself and continued “—teacher got it. They both died. Our cook had it too, but he…”
Quinn frowned, the images of what Graham had become playing across his mind. How the cold, pale flesh had felt beneath his fingers. “He…”
“He turned into one of them, didn’t he?”
The woman was standing inside the doorway, the gun at her side again. A little outline in the hallway became a boy as he stepped forward. He was around five years old with tousled, brown hair and glazed eyes the same color of his mother’s that stared past Quinn, through him.
“He turned into a stilt,” the woman said.
“A stilt?”
“Because how tall they are.”
“You mean you’ve seen one too?”
The woman huffed a derisive laugh.
“One? Try dozens.”
Quinn’s mouth worked but nothing came out for a moment.
“Dozens? There’s more of them?”
“Are you slow too? Part of your…” she gestured at his face. “…disorder?”
“What? No, I’m just—I thought Graham was the only one.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but no. There’s a lot of them. Way more than immunes.”
Quinn moved to the sofa and sat, the aches in his legs and ankle muted by what the woman had told him. Ty shuffled further into the room, one hand on his mother’s belt, not looking around, only staring in the general direction of the fire.
“You’re really alone?” the woman asked.
“Yes. There was two others but they left.”
“Were they two men?”