They were all well over eight feet, one towering above the rest that must’ve been upwards of twelve, their long-fingered hands poking and prodding the vehicle’s paint. One sniffed at the grille, inhaling a long breath before forcing it out with a wet blast. The tallest kept turning in his direction, eyes wide and hungry, scanning the land around the road.
He’d been making good time, only having to leave the road twice to get around cars blocking the highway. But the Ford was a glutton for gas, and he’d stopped on a barren stretch where he could see a good length in almost all directions to refill the tank from one of the spare cans. When he was finished, he’d walked to the side of the highway to relieve himself, slinging his rifle around his shoulder, not bothering to close the truck’s door. While he was standing there, he’d glanced back the way he’d come, the road narrowing to a dagger point in the distance before cresting a hill. At its very top, long shapes had been swaying, their movements fluid and swift. He’d cut his urination off mid-stream and began to run for the Ford when two stilts had appeared from the trees closest to the road. Without pausing they’d made a line for the truck, their deep grunts and burps becoming louder and louder.
There was no way he would have made it to the vehicle.
He’d fled in the opposite direction off the road, keeping the truck between the stilts and his flight. He’d slid behind the hay bale as they reached the truck, the first one rumbling a growl as it peered inside the cab. Within minutes the other group he’d spotted first arrived and joined them, their numbers growing from two to seven.
An hour later, they were still enamored with the vehicle. As he watched, one pulled out his bag from the backseat and tore an MRE open, its contents exploding on the pavement near its feet. Quinn re-gripped the AR-15. He raised it to his shoulder, bringing his sights to rest on the tallest stilt’s head. Thirty rounds, seven of them. But only twenty yards between them and the hay bail. He placed his finger on the trigger, beginning to squeeze, but then lowered the weapon as another three pale figures emerged from the woods a quarter mile behind the truck and joined the group. Quinn’s nerves frayed further as time slid by. The sun arced overhead and began its descent toward the western horizon. He watched them scatter the contents of the bag further, all the while the tallest kept pacing up and down the highway. It croaked louder than the others, and he saw that they always gave it the most space when it passed by.
All at once the leader lunged down the embankment beside the road and closed on the hay bale.
Quinn shrunk down, aiming the rifle up, a split second from pulling the trigger.
The stilt slowed and stopped on the opposite side of the bale. The wind gusted, ripping across the field. The creature reached out and nudged the bale with one hand. It rocked slightly and settled. The stilt huffed once and then turned, letting out a loud grunt. The other nine turned their heads and looked at it before lumbering away down the road. The tallest remained where it was for an agonizing second and then followed the herd.