Cruel World(102)

Quinn unwrapped a candy bar and chewed.

The wind blew ribbons of sand down the open street.

He tossed the wrapper away and stood. The light had weakened. In an hour it would be full dusk.

Quinn re-gripped the bag and cane, keeping the revolver in the opposite hand as he pushed through the door slow enough not to ring the bell. The street was silent, so quiet he could hear the speckling of grit as the wind coasted across the concrete.

The Honda waited for him ten steps away.

He hesitated beneath the colorful awning. His body trembled. Fresh sweat sprung out from every pore.

Quinn launched himself forward, dropping the bag and cane into the rear hauling-bed of the ATV. He jumped into the seat and turned the key. The engine fired. He slammed the vehicle into gear and swung a U-turn in the street, sure that any second a stilt would fall upon him, reach between the protective roll-cage and rip him from the Honda. He would feel its teeth gouging into his skin, sinking through muscle and sinew before it bit through bone.

He swerved around the burnt, black pickups and hammered the gas again, glancing over his shoulder.

Nothing.

No pursuit from any direction.

The town slid past him as he gained speed.

Thirty miles per hour.

Thirty-five.

Forty.

He looked back again as he left Ferry behind, the buildings falling away as he pushed harder on the throttle. He’d made it. They’d moved on. He faced forward, a sigh of relief escaping him.

The tallest stilt stood up from the side of the road where it had been waiting and swiped a giant hand at the ATV.

Quinn cranked the wheel, the Honda listing to the right as the stilt’s hand swept the roll cage, pushing the vehicle all the way over. He clung to the frame, the impact jarring his teeth in their sockets, trying to feed him to the passing pavement. Sparks flew in dazzling showers as the ATV slid off the side of the highway and spun to a stop in the gravel.

Dust was everywhere, in his eyes, his mouth, his nose. His ears rang from the screeching metal, but above it he could hear the stilt’s croak, deeper and more powerful than any he’d heard before. Quinn struggled out of the capsized Honda, his vision blurred by dirt. The stilt was fifty yards away, coming fast. Its arms swung, slender legs pumping, mouth open, teeth waiting.

The gun. Where was the gun?

He scrambled around the ATV. The bag and cane were near the side of the road. The stilt stepped over them and began to run. It moved with a frightening grace, a long marionette in motion. Quinn saw the glint of steel thirty feet from the bag in the center of the highway. He waited until the stilt was upon him, its smell overwhelming.

He dove to the side, ducking beneath a reaching hand the size of a car tire. One of its ragged fingernails dug a furrow in the skin of his back, tearing his shirt partially away. He cried out and rolled to his feet, running as soon as he gained his balance. The stilt roared, and a whoosh of air passed the back of his head. His legs threatened to drop him as he pelted up the rise and tripped onto the blacktop, the revolver lying in the last rays of sun, its grip extended toward him.

He stretched, fingertips snagging the trigger guard.

Long fingers encircled his ankle and yanked him back the way he’d come. The road scratched his shoulders, and he spun the handgun around, his finger finding the trigger.

Quinn sat up and fired.

The revolver boomed, bucking like an animal in his hand. The stilt made a wheezing sound and placed a white palm over a dark hole in its chest. Its eyes bulged, too human and filled with pain. It hacked and a globule of blood spurted from its open jaws. It tried to breathe in, but a sound like a child sucking the last of a milkshake from the bottom of a glass filled the air. It released the iron grip on his ankle and took two great steps back.

It teetered on its feet for a long second and then fell like a giant tree.

The stilt crashed to the ground, landing on a jagged rock, the sound of breaking bones clear in the still evening. Its hand fell away from the hole in its chest and blood flowed from the wound, dropping to the ground like dark rain.

Quinn stared at it, watching for any movement, even a twitch of dead muscle fibers, but there was nothing. Only then did he realize he was still aiming the revolver at its flat form.

A croak came from the direction of town.

Then another.

And another.

Soon the air was alive with the other stilt’s calls. Quinn pushed himself to his feet and staggered toward the overturned Honda as the first creature strode into view from behind the poultry farm.