Darby thrusts his chin at the truck. “We’ll sleep in there and leave him out here. You can take first watch. I thought you liked horses, Moira. Don’t all little girls want a pony?”
“I’m not a little girl,” she retorts. “And he’s not a fucking pony.”
Darby doesn’t respond, just heads to the truck.
Moira stands looking after him, and then jumps into the back and retrieves the rifle. When she comes back, she settles down against a tree and scowls at Estajfan. “Don’t go anywhere,” she snaps. “If you even know what I’m saying.”
There’s a sadness in her face and eyes that reminds him of Heather, and makes him want to speak. But he looks away from Moira and stares at the trampled grass, the vines and overgrown weeds all around them. He digs his hands into a cluster of vines and pulls against the ties. The strands of rope weaken, give way. He waits until there’s more commotion from the men—a clang, “Fuck you, that was my finger, jackass”—and when Moira looks up their way, he jerks and snaps the ropes, then lets his hands go limp.
He won’t be able to get at the ropes binding his legs as easily.
Soon the daylight is gone and the dark is all around them. Eventually he hears the men swearing at each other as they settle down for the night, and then they grow quiet. Moira hasn’t moved.
He looks up at the sky and tries to count the stars.
20
The tingle in Heather’s fingers becomes a tingle in her hands, a warm flush that spreads from her shoulders down to her toes. As they run, she feels Estajfan come awake. He can move, and yet he doesn’t. He can speak, and yet he doesn’t.
In the early afternoon, Aura stops. Petrolio reaches for Heather—she almost falls, she’s that stiff, but he has her, his hands gentle. He lifts her down onto the ground and holds her until the sleep passes from her feet and she’s sure her legs will bear the weight.
“You haven’t eaten,” Aura says. She pulls her satchel over her shoulder and reaches into it, then hands her an apple.
“I’m not hungry. And anyway, you haven’t eaten either.”
“I’m not pregnant,” Aura says. “If anything happens to you, Estajfan will never forgive me.”
Heather bites into the apple, chews, swallows.
As she takes another bite, Petrolio comes to stand in front of her, swishing his tail back and forth.
“He can move his arms at least,” she says, her mouth filled with apple.
“Is he being watched?” Petrolio asks.
She closes her eyes and sees flashes of the woman—brown eyes, crooked nose—the boy, the man with the tattoo. They are all thin and tired and angry.
“I don’t know if they’re watching him, but they’ve stopped,” she says. “I think there’s something wrong with the truck.”
Petrolio nods. “We need to go now.”
Heather drops the rest of the apple on the ground and lets Aura lift her up onto Petrolio.
They run.
Something shivers in the ground beneath Estajfan’s ear. He knows, instantly, that they are here. He can feel Petrolio’s beating hearts, the simmer of Aura’s rage.
And Heather—he can feel Heather.
There’s a rustle nearby and the man who is now on watch—Darby—sits up and cocks his gun. A twig breaks.
“Jesus, Brian. You’re lucky I didn’t blow your head off.”
“I was trying to be quiet.” The boy shuffles up beside the other man and props another gun against the tree. “Anyway. I’m here. You can go get some sleep.” There’s a pause, and then, “Did anything—happen?”
“With this thing? No.”
He can hear Brian swallow. “Not just—the creature. The—plants.”
“Brian, for God’s sake—”
“You know they move! You’ve seen them reach for people. That’s why we’ve been sleeping in the truck!”
“It’s fine,” Darby says. “Nothing happened.” He stands and thumps the boy on the back. “Try not to get us all killed,” he says, and he heads for the truck.
The boy clears his throat and leans against a tree. He’s nervous. He’s also very tired. Estajfan looks up at the stars again and waits for the boy to sit, to slouch, to nod off.
He almost doesn’t want it to happen. He can feel the green things waiting, watching for a sign.
As soon as Brian relaxes and slumps to sit down against the tree, a slender grubby hand clamps his mouth, and the other holds something small and sharp against his neck.
“If you move,” Heather whispers, “I will slit your throat.”
The boy’s eyes widen in terror, but he doesn’t move. The rifle falls into the grass.
Petrolio emerges from the trees on the other side of Estajfan. He bends and slices the ropes that still bind Estajfan’s legs.
Estajfan is on his feet almost instantly.
“We’re going to leave now,” Heather hisses to the boy. “Don’t scream, or move, or I’ll come back and kill you.”
She retreats, slowly, and the boy doesn’t stir. Then she trips over the undergrowth and the boy is after her instantly, grabbing her hair and her shirt, and now she’s the one with the sharp thing at her neck as Brian screams, “There are more of them! There are fucking more of them!”
“Go!” Estajfan roars at Petrolio. He sees the other three scramble out of the truck. JJ runs to the front and turns the truck lights on and Petrolio cries out against the sudden blare of light, then turns and disappears into the trees. Darby plunges after him.
“Run!” Heather cries as Brian drags her back toward the truck. “Estajfan, go!”
Someone fires a shot; it whizzes past Estajfan’s ear. It’s Moira, coming toward them, her gun held high and pointed at his face.
Estajfan ducks and charges at the boy; Brian, terrified, drops Heather and falls backward onto the ground. Estajfan scoops Heather up and then he’s rearing over Brian, and his hooves come down as Brian screams.
“Stop!” Moira screams.
Estajfan looks straight at her. “You saved me once, Moira,” he says.
For a few seconds, she’s stunned by the sound of his voice. It’s all the time he needs. He turns and leaps and runs. Shots ring out, but they run and run and suddenly Petrolio is there, and Aura, and then they are all galloping, the shouts fading behind them.
21
Moira lets out one long, rage-filled scream as the creatures vanish into the trees. Then she goes to Brian, who lies panting and white-faced on the ground. His right leg is shattered, the tibia splintered white and ugly below his knee. She runs to the truck, jumps in, and grabs her makeshift medical supplies—rags, the bottle of whiskey. She tears a large strip of cloth and douses it in alcohol, then ties it as tight around his shin as she can to stop the bleeding.
He passes out, which is probably just as well.
“Darby! JJ!” There’s a moment, a long one, and then they come back to her, out of the trees. Without a word, they carry Brian into the back of the truck.
“I need—sticks,” she says. “Straight ones.”
Darby goes to look while JJ dismantles the camp. Darby comes back carrying two large branches. Moira strips the leaves and gets the men to help her position them on either side of Brian’s leg. She douses an old sheet in the rest of the whiskey and then winds it around and around his leg, over the branches, tying it as tight as she can to form a splint.
As she works, she sees how guilt-ridden and furious the other two are. She feels the same way. They had all pushed the kid around a little, but you had to be hard now to survive. Like JJ, so flint-eyed and dour and capable, holding a hundred different secrets, or Darby, who was snappy and mean and had panic-filled night terrors they all pretended to ignore.